


Child in Time

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Reality, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5492867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December 1981. Lars returns home to LA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> An alternate reality story about the beginning of Metallica. Inspired by Bret Easton Ellis's "Less Than Zero."
> 
> This is a VERY old story with a lot of spelling and grammar mistakes. I completed this story about... five, six years ago. I'll be re-reading each part I bring up to fix whatever spelling and grammar mistakes I find, but I'm not revising it anymore. It is what it is. 
> 
> I hope old fans of the story still enjoy it, and new ones will too.

People don't know how to drive. They're afraid to step on the gas and go. Either follow the speed limit or get off the freeway, Dave says. No one knows where they’re going these days, no one understands the difference between the pedals. There's a brake and there's a gas, and you step on the latter and don't stop. Don't follow the signs, don't heed the words. Just hit the gas and go. That's what Dave says.

There's millions of cars on 405. It's hot and muggy— weird for a December day, but nothing makes sense in Los Angeles. The Jaguars, Porsches, Maseratis, Ferraris, they all piss Dave off with their slow speeds. He continues muttering about pedals and signs, sneers about LAX being a bitch and that traffic was more unneeded bullshit. Lars notes he bitches in time to the disco beat on the radio.

Weed and vodka stings his nostrils. The weed’s from either from his clothes, Dave's clothes or the car. The weed probably came from Berkeley, the old co-op. But he can smell Dave's cheap cologne too, the same old cheap cologne Dave swears came from Rodeo but probably came from somewhere down in Torrence or Lennox.

Dave smells the same. Dave looks the same. Dave's still the Sunset Boulevard reject complete with the denim outfit and Aerosmith tee. The oily red hair and the throbbing zit on Dave's temple diminishes his age from eighteen to the fourteen-year-old Lars remembers him best.

It's too hot to wear what Lars does right now: some sort of grey argyle shirt East Coasters and his mother favor, black slacks dirtied from the mud he stepped in accidentally before he entered the taxi to go to SFO, leather shoes sporting dots, scratches and stains. His long brown hair is tied in a ponytail, scalp slicked back with the expensive gel one of his stepsisters bought him a few Christmases ago. He feels awkward compared to Dave's jeans and concert tee.

Dave changes the channel on the stereo and another disco tune pops up. Lars wants nothing more than to rip off the argyle, display his Sabbath tee underneath, take out the ponytail and wash out the gel from his hair. But he must look presentable. He has to look presentable. 

Lars glances at the clock — three o'clock exactly. They will probably be stuck in traffic for another half hour. Then, once he's in his bedroom, he can shed this skin away and delve into his real one.

He looks out his moving window. He focuses on the cars, the asphalt, the roar of the engine and the curses Dave throws into the air. The rubber and the tires, the smog and the yellow-sick sky, the skyscrapers and the advertisements. They all welcome him home. They all tell him to come there, go here, get your foot off the brake and come this way son, come that way boy, you'll be faring well here in the west again, where people are afraid to drive and step on the gas.

 

Dave turns off the freeway and stops at a red light. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and turns the volume up to a Van Halen song. Lars can't recall the name, but he's heard it enough. Dave likes it too much. Everyone likes it too much.

Halfway to the house Dave talks about some party or whatever happening tonight, but Lars can't hear his voice over David Lee Roth's irritating moan. The car jerks when the light turns green. Dave steps on the gas. Lars still can't hear Dave with the engine and the wind and the heat and the song.

Burning rubber stinks as bad as the moldy cheese he notices festering in the side pocket of the door. He looks down at the sleeve of his shirt and brings his collared wrist to his nose. Two speculative sniffs later Lars draws it away, then leans in for a longer test. He stops, rests back on the seat. His wrist slaps against his thigh. It's definitely his roommate's weed. One last present from his fifteen weeks in Berkeley.

It's all cheap laughs and fake smiles and more Van Halen on the radio as they head to Bel-Air. He gets used to the burning rubber smell and ignores the staunch stench of moldy cheese by bringing his wrist to his nose and taking a whiff of Berkeley-grown weed. Lars stares at the rapidly moving scenery before him as he responds to Dave's questions mindlessly. He doesn't really know what he's saying.

The wagon parks with a jerk in his parents' driveway. Men in orange jackhammer through the street, near the millions of palm trees and the electric wires. Beautiful men and women with tanned skinned and white outfits walk up and down the sidewalks. They enter fancy cars, leave big mansions, laugh and smile and chatter.

Van Halen shuts off finally. He sits in his seat while Dave unloads his luggage from the trunk. He can't recall what they talked about. It was probably about a party. Dave's always been about partying. Maybe about Lennon. Dave liked the Beatles.

The side door opens and he steps out. He hugs Dave and takes the luggage. Dave says, "You wanna hit up that joint?" and he says, "Maybe, I dunno." Dave says, "You look pale," and he shrugs and they say goodbye and he watches Dave clunk off in that weed-vodka smelling, brown station wagon.

He lugs his bags up the driveway, to the front porch, through the massive door and into the even more massive living room. Lars stands there stupid with his bags and the door wide open and looks at the place he calls home.

White walls, white carpet, white furniture. Gold coat hangers, gold door knobs, gold windowsills. The maid dusts the china cabinet. French cuisine wafts from the kitchen area a few feet away. It's just like how he left it some fifteen weeks ago.

He leaves his bags at the door and walks into the house. The maid pays no attention to him as he walks past her. He says nothing. She says nothing. It's customary.

Lars heads to the pool area in the backyard. There he finds his blonde, tanned, big-breasted older sisters in skimpy matching yellow bathing suits and designer sunglasses. Red-colored martinis rest in their tanned hands as they sunbathe on white recliners.

"I'm home," he says.

They don't respond.

"Where's mom?"

"Somewhere," the eldest of the two, Mia, says.

"And Gunner?"

"Business trip."

“Ah.”

The other, Tilda, raises her glass. "Can you make us two more martinis before you go?" she asks. "We're running low here."

Lars says nothing about their martinis still being full. He makes the martinis at the pool bar and hands them to his older stepsisters. They don't say anything. He doesn't say anything. 

Again, the same old customs.

He reenters the house. The maid's head turns from the cabinet to him. He says, "When's dinner?" and she says, "An hour." She stops her dusting to stare at him. Wide-eyed, bug-eyed, fish-eyed. "You're pale," she says, and he stares at her tanned flesh and shrugs.

Lars manages to drag the luggage up the flight of stairs to his room. He stumbles inside, dumps the bags onto his bed, sits on the mattress, wipes the sweat from his forehead and stares at the room.

Everything is the way it was when he left for Berkeley, down to the articles of clothing he had strewn across the floor and didn't pick up in his haste to get to LAX on time. Except dustier. The maid didn't clean, or maybe his mother ordered her not to. It's probably the latter.

The record collection appears untouched next to the record player. The crap drumkit his father bought him before he left Copenhagen stands dilapidated as ever in the corner of his room. The piece of shit painting his mom bought for him as a last-minute Christmas gift the year before hangs lopsided on the white wall between two posters.

Aside from the dust, everything is still the same. His sisters in the pool, the maid dusting the cabinet, the French food cooking in the kitchen, Dave driving his station wagon, him in his argyle sweater, the house, the city, Los Angeles. 

Everything is still the same. 

His eyes glaze over the posters on the wall, the ones his Da bought for him when he used to live in Denmark. On one side are the bands he loves: Deep Purple, Queen, Black Sabbath. On the other are the members he admires: Freddie Mercury, Ian Pace, Ozzy Osbourne. 

His face scrunches — someone is missing.

Lars darts his attention everywhere in the room, curious and anxious. He looks to his right, and sees the tail end of white paper stick out from under his pillow. He reaches over and pulls it out.

The signed poster of Ritchie Blackmore. Split apart, ripped apart, pieces piled on top of each other. Image of a leg, image of a guitar, image of a face.

Lars picked up the yellow post-it note on one of the pieces. 

_Do you still need this?_ read the words in impeccable penmanship.

He flicks his gaze back to the poster. Sunlight spills through his massive window onto the ripped pieces — they are ripped, he can tell — and he shoves them back under his pillow with the post-it note.

 

When Lone returns home, the food is ready. Lars says, "Hej mor," and Lone says, "Speak English, we're not in Denmark." Lars shrugs and sits at the table across from his stepsisters. They eat in silence.

Lone sits proper, back upright and nose upturned. Her hands gracefully reach for the fork and knife, cutting her slices of turkey breast into small cubes. Lone's been like this since Lars can remember. When she used to be a Ulrich, Lone smiled more often and joked with his father. When she became an Ableson, the smiles ended and she sneered more than she laughed. The stress of being a well-known photographer in Los Angeles high society as well as the wife of famed film producer Gunner Ableson probably got to her.

Mia and Tilda look like big-breasted female versions of his step-father: blonde haired, blue eyed and indulgently beautiful. The only difference between them is their style of clothing. Mia's exclusively Funkytown in Ralph Lauren, while Tilda's all Diana Ross in Calvin Klein.

He's not like his mother, not like his step-sisters. He's Freddie Mercury in grubby Ozzy clothing underneath all the argyle his mother throws at him, and no one's the wiser. He doesn't even have the same eye-color as them. They're all blue eyes; he's green eyes. If Lone didn't have her brown hair, he wouldn't have any connection with them. He'd be the oddball with his brown hair and green eyes and pale skin, while they were all blonde hair and blue eyes and tanned skin.

Lone's blue eyes snap in his direction. She frowns at the full plate in front of him. "Finish your food," she says.

Lars nods at her. He finishes first and dismisses himself from the table. Neither his mother nor his sisters say a word. As custom dictates, he thanks the maid and ascends the stairs to his room. Like usual.

He enters and heads to the nightstand. Lars pulls the bottom drawer open and finds the untouched white powder in a tight baggy. Just like old times. Might as well continue the routine, he figures.

The black landline phone rests on the stand's mahogany surface, underneath the soft lamplight. Lars grabs the receiver and dials Dave's number.

 

It's a loud and rancorous party when he arrives late at night, typical Hollywood-Sunset nonsense with Blondie, whore laughs and drug snorts as the soundtrack. He didn't want to come here at first, but he's used to this by now. He knows this area well. Custom dictates this.

Wannabe actors, actresses, models, directors, and producers star as a motley cast and crew in this R-rated movie for tonight's showing. They're all drop dead gorgeous and delusional, lost in each other's worlds and each other's pants. Sequined dresses and blonde hair, blue eyed men and women with long legs and big breasts, with strong abs and chiseled biceps. The next big thing they firmly believe, and maybe they will be if they're crazy and stupid enough.

It's all the same. It's all the rage. It's still the big fuck fantasy complete with the disco ball and the rampant sex and the silly moans. It's still LA. 

It's still the same. 

Everything is the same. 

Fifteen weeks later, and nothing changed.

Nothing will ever change. 

There is nothing left for Lars to do but to follow custom. It's what custom dictates.

Red wine flows with the vodka and the rum. Thousand dollar gourmet food lands on everything, from skin to paper to grass. And he knows by the smile beaming from Dave and the greetings he receives of "Hey Lars, welcome back" from everyone here at this party that he knows he's finally home.

 

They find a cramped space to get it done. Dave knows it's been some time for Lars. Fifteen weeks off the stuff. Fifteen weeks away from what he knows best. When he was in Berkeley, he went through withdrawals, but he made it through. Going cold turkey wasn't smart, but it's all Lars knew. All he could do.

But Dave knows Lars well. Dave knows what to do to bring him back into it. Dave assess and determines like a doctor. A coke doctor. A drug connoisseur. Lars trusts Dave's knowledge. Lars knows Dave well. Dave knows Lars too. Dave knows Lars's limits better than any drug dealer on the Sunset Strip.

He cuts the lines correctly and warns Lars when to go, when to stop, and when to start again. Lars follows his orders. He knows not to fuck around with this. Dave knows what he's doing. Dave's a seasoned dealer. He's smart with this shit. And Lars always follows what Dave is doing. It's custom.

After the first hit, it's Dave's turn once more. That's when Lars speaks.

"One of my posters was ripped."

Dave looks up from the mirror and the small lines of white on it. "That sucks. Which one?"

"The signed one."

"Ah shit! Blackmore? You're kidding. Who would fucking do that? You should've brought it with you to Berkeley.” He snorts, tilts his head back, sniffs a few times, wipes underneath his nose and passes the razor to Lars. "So who the fuck was it?"

"Dunno." He leans over the mirror and one of the small lines easily disappears up his left nostril. He wipes under his nose, his whole face. "Probably Lone.”

“Bitch." Dave finishes his second beer and reaches underneath the table for another. "Thinks she's so high and fuckin' mighty, running your life and shit."

"She doesn't run anything."

"Damn right she doesn't!" He forgets the beer. "She's no good period! Telling you to go to Stanford, telling you no music, telling you to not even speak your own fuckin' _language_. And for what? Cuz she wants you to be more American? Cuz Gunner said so? What kind of name is that anyway? Gunner? Fuck that shit! You're from Denmark, you should be proud of your heritage. Man, she's nothing but a fucking—"

"Finished?"

Dave blinks a few times, derailed, deflated. "What?"

Lars points at the lines. "You gonna finish your hits or what?"

"Uh... yeah."

"Okay."

Dave takes the hit, wipes under his nose and continues the ritual again. Blondie floats and pulses from downstairs. Lars takes two more hits and stops. He waits for Dave to finish until the powder is completely gone from the mirror.

The mirror hits the floor. White sprinkles on the already white carpet. Dave steps into the mirror by accident and cracks it. Lars giggles at Dave's curse.

Their lips meet. Tongues sneak out and lap at the residual powder on the other's face. Their hands begin the familiar dance, naked and sweaty and high as kites.

Dave unbuttons the grey argyle Lars forgot to discard earlier at the house. He tugs it up and over and dumps it to the floor. He palms his chest and fingers Ozzy's washed-out face right over his nipple.

"Just how old is this shirt?" Dave starts to tug the shirt out of his pants.

Lars helps him take it off. It lands on top of his argyle. He reaches out to Dave. "Dunno." Their warm chests meet. "Torben got it for me back in Denmark. So, eight years, I guess."

Dave kisses his lips and runs his hands down Lars's torso. "Better take care of it."

Their hard-ons rub together. Lars removes Dave's shirt. He kisses Dave's lips, slips his tongue in between and they make-out. His hands slide up Dave's torso and tweak his nipples.

He leaves Dave's mouth and trails his tongue down his jaw and neck to his sternum. His palms lay flat on Dave's warm skin.

"You really mean she didn't find this?" Dave asks between pants. "No one did? Not even the maid?"

Lars isn't sure if he means the shirt or the coke, but it doesn't matter. He shakes his head no, dips his head and bites his way down Dave's tanned chest and stomach.

His knees plant into the ground. Lars curls his index finger into one of Dave's belt loops. The other unzips his jeans.

"They're fuckin' idiots," Dave gasps out. "Fuckin' idiots."

He grins around Dave's navel, slides his tongue down and dips further to an open fly and wiry hair like old times.

 

When they're done, Lars cleans up the bed, Dave and himself. He kisses Dave goodnight and drives back home to Bel-Air in his expensive Shelby GT. There's not much traffic on Santa Monica at 3 in the morning, but there's still people up. There's always people awake in LA. They don't sleep. They probably can't.

The radio plays the same songs Lars hears during the day. It doesn't matter if it's 3AM or 3PM, Blondie will play, then David Bowie, then Oliva Newton John, then a few disco tunes Lars won't care about one way or another. Once in awhile, an oddball will be thrown in. Queen, Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith. Of course it's only the radio favorites that are played, but it's better than nothing.

He sees the exit to UCLA come up, and he heads to the right hand lane. It's then he hears the kick drum, the distorted vocal opening _I am Iron Man_ , and a fast, crushing guitar riff. He's pleasantly surprised to hear a real metal song on the radio; but it is the radio's Black Sabbath favorite, so it shouldn't be such a shock.

Lars bops his head to the beat as he takes the exit ramp. Here and there he mouths along to the lyrics. The edges of old childhood memories tickle his mind, him and Dave at ten ranting over which Sabbath album was better. He pushes them back by focusing on his driving.

_Is he alive or dead?_ He hears as he drives down the road to UCLA. _Has he thoughts inside his head?_ Lars stops at a red light, his eyes widening. _We'll just pass him there._ The radio crackles with static as Ozzy keeps singing. _Why should we even care?_

The light turns green. Lars pushes away the memories, the tears in his eyes, the ache in his chest, and the pain in his stomach. He drives home listening to the song but not singing along like he used to.

The song finishes when he parks the car in the driveway. The tears still remain. The memories float in the horizon. He's too blissfully exhausted to focus on either.

 

Dave invites him to a few more parties thereafter. Lars goes to each one. Every time, people recognize him, remember him from a party six months ago, a summer go, a lifetime ago.

"Hey, didn't you go to Stanford?" someone asks. "Berkeley," he corrects. "They're both great schools," someone comments. "Yeah but his mom wanted him to go to Stanford, because Berkeley is too much of an idiot school for her standards," Dave scoffs.

There's booze and liquor aplenty, alongside all the snatch and drugs he ever needs. Yeah, it's typical Hollywood-Sunset. It's not like Berkeley-Telegraph and its love-one, love-all, hemp-and-weed, flower-tree-hugging, free-spirit-rejoicing atmosphere. There's more flash and speed than peace and weed here in LA. Red lips and white teeth, no natural anything. The tie-dye is in the disco ball, not on the clothes.

He surveys the crowd dancing underneath all the lights. The music pulses like an erratic heartbeat, loud and booming, shaking glasses and thumping walls. And no one cares. They dance and laugh and lick and suck, just like they always have. 

This is what he knows best. This is where he belongs. 

Everything's the same. Nothing's changed. 

Nothing changes in Los Angeles.

The fashion will change, the music will change, the people will change, but not the feel, not the vibe, not the atmosphere. Los Angeles is the wasteland for the wasted, the abused and the abuser. For Dave. For Lone. For himself. He was a fool to think otherwise. 

Berkeley was wrong. He was wrong. 

Los Angeles is right.

The more he drinks, the more he remembers what it was like living here. The more he snorts, the more he forgets why he left in the first place. And the more he comes in Dave's mouth, the more he doesn't give two shits anymore and lets it all go.

 

Gunner arrives home sometime midday when Lars is sleeping off his hangover from the number-whatever-eth party in a week's time. His mom barges into the room, yanks the sheets off his naked form, yells at him to get dressed, throws the formal clothes from his closet on his cold body and leaves with a humph and a snort.

He feels groggy and weak as he slides out of bed and to the bathroom. Everything's fuzzy and sluggish, slow and stupid. Lars barely gets a look of himself in the mirror. He makes out his frizzled hair and chapped lips and droopy eyes before he falls forward onto the sink and slams his forehead into his reflection.

Lars makes himself as presentable as possible with his pressed argyle-vest and black slacks. He combs his long brown hair as fast as he can and ties the length back in a tight ponytail. His pale hands turn the sink knobs on and he splashes his face with cold water a few times.

As he descends the stairs Lars sees his mother's sickeningly sweet and overjoyed expression to his stepfather. It's one that starkly reminds him of what she used to send his father's way as a boy and Lars doesn't appreciate the similarity.

Gunner Ableson represents the typical all-Swedish wannabe-American pretty boy: blonde-haired, blue-eyed, big-boned, big-chested, big voiced. It didn't surprise him how his mom married a man like this after being with his not-as-impressive-looking father.

He's pulled into a crushing hug before he even finishes leaving the steps. Gunner's booming laugh hurts his ears to the point of pain and leaves a ringing inside that he's sure will last the rest of the day, if not the whole week. The large hand slaps against Lars's back, knocks the wind out of him.

"Good to see you home son!" Gunner grips his shoulder and leads him out the door. "We must celebrate your return by having a family outing. Where do you want to eat?"

"I wanna go to La Folie," says step-sister number one.

"I wanna go to Campton Place," says step-sister number two.

"Fleur de Lys was such a wonderful place last time," coos his mother.

"All wonderful places! What say you Lars?" asks his step-father.

Lars shrugs off Gunner's hold. The driver opens the door to the limo for him. He wants to say he doesn't care, or whatever, or I don't know, but he settles with "Fleur de Lys" under a small breath and enters the car and takes the side of the leather seat closest to the opposite door.

The drive is thankfully fast. Everyone talks but him. He stares out the window and watches billboards and buildings pass by either sluggishly or swiftly. There are so many cars still, all different shapes and sizes, models and colors. But their eyes keep staring at the limo, trying to search inside, trying to see who's there. It's Los Angeles. A limo automatically means rich; a limo instantly means powerful; a limo immediately means famous. Yeah, sure, the rich and famous Ablesons from Bel-Air, just like everyone else from that area. Nothing special there.

Fleur de Lys is a five star restaurant, completely French and utterly luxurious. It looks like another room in his Bel-Air house, all white and gold and prim and proper. They walk to their usual table, already on reserve. They all order the usual and the meals arrive fast on china plates and gold covers.

The lunch goes well. There's light conversation between he and Gunner, but his mother takes over before he can truly answer any of Gunner's questions about his new life in Berkeley. He tries once to speak up, says "I wasn't done talking," and Lone rolls her eyes and sneers, "No one cares about what a Bezerklian says, only a Stanford scholar."

When the meals are done, Lars tries to bolt, but Gunner keeps him there for dessert. He orders mango sorbet even though he hates sorbet and wanted chocolate ice cream instead like his step-sisters. His face sours when his mother orders a chocolate ice cream instead of the regular sorbet.

Halfway through dessert Gunner asks, "What do you want for Christmas?" Lars pauses mid-suck of his spoon. It never hit him that Christmas was so soon, and thus his birthday. He looks across the table to his step-sisters who are oblivious to anything but their desserts and nailpolish and movie auditions, then to his mother who is oblivious to everything but Gunner.

He takes the spoon out of his mouth. "I dunno," he says. "How about money?" Gunner says. "Okay," Lars says, and he knows full well that's the usual gift anyway, but he keeps his mouth shut about it and wraps his lips around another spoonful of mango sorbet. Lone makes some dirty comment about poor hippies. Gunner comments on his pale skin. Lars ignores both of them.

Lars only finishes half of the sorbet. He leaves with a curt nod to his step-father. Lone and his step-sisters ignore him. When he's halfway out the door, the manager recognizes him and says, "Have a good day Mr. Albeson." He turns to him and says, "It's Ulrich," and he leaves before the manager can ask him what he meant.

 

Out of the blue one day he's disrupted from his return to the debauched familiar land of tight pants and taut skin. It happens midday, with Dave waiting outside his door and the maid holding the phone in her hand.

"There's a phone call for you," she says. "Someone named Cliff."

He's confused and weirded out by the mention of his roommate's name, but he hides it with a murmured "Okay" to the maid and a "Give me ten" to Dave.

"I burned your mattress by accident," Cliff says on the kitchen phone. There's guilt in his slow drawl. He's probably not as stoned as usual. "The fuckin' lighter slipped outta my hands while I was lighting the bong and your mattress went like... poof."

"I can buy a new one."

"You sure?"

"My family's loaded, Cliff. If Lone won't fork over the money, my Da will. It's fine."

"Oh. Okay." Something rummages over the line. Some static follows. "So, how's the hell-hole?"

"It's fine."

"Nothing's ever fine in that wasteland."

Lars's face sours at Cliff's disgust. "It's livable."

"Barely."

"It's home."

"Right. Sure." The sarcasm seeps in Cliff's slow drawl. Lars hears Cliff's lighter flip open. "I really thought you'd be calling me up after the first day." His chuckles upset Lars's stomach. "Begging me to come back to the sane part of the state, y'know."

"You know I had to come back."

"Yeah yeah, I know. Christmas party, obligation to family, I get it.” He hears Cliff take a puff. Hears him cough and hack and then says, “We know the truth though.”

Lars stares ahead. At the curtains. The blinds.

“So,” Cliff says. 

Another puff.

Lars looks outside the kitchen window to watch Dave leaning on the hood of the station wagon, smoking a cigarette.

“Did it change?”

Dave looks right at him.

Lars stares.

Dave stares.

“Lars?”

The maid dusts the kitchen table besides him. She glances up at him but Lars doesn't see her expression in his peripheral vision.

“You still there?” 

“Yeah.” He looks away from Dave. “Sorry, I got distracted. It’s all good here. Everything’s good.”

“Really?“

“Yeah.”

“That’s awesome. Just make sure your mom doesn’t persuade you to transfer like I know she will—“

"I got it.” 

“Jeez, don’t need to be a bitch about it.” Cliff snorts over the line. It sounds like Dave snorting a line. “You sure you’re okay over there? You sound weird. Like how you did when I first met you—"

“I’m fine, Cliff. I gotta go. I have shit to do.”

There's static over the line for awhile. Then Cliff sighs and coughs again. He probably smoked too much again. Or maybe he's sick.

"Alright, fine," Cliff dismisses. "Just wanted to tell you about the bed."

"Cool."

He hears the sound of Cliff's lighter opening and the puff of a cigarette. "One more thing. When are you coming back to campus? I still gotta educate you on the ways of Geddy Lee and all things Rush before the semester starts."

Lars looks outside the kitchen window again and finds Dave sans cigarette, still looking right at him. But he’s smiling this time. Dave is smiling.

"Lars?" 

Dave turns away and enters his car. He turns the ignition on.

"You _are_ coming back to Berkeley, right?"

Lars tightens his hand around the phone.

 

Party number fifty-something this year alone reaches it's climax of debauchery sometime around three in the morning. David Bowie pulses from downstairs into the penthouse suite they are in. The only consolation is that it's not the one Lars has been hearing for weeks now.

Dave sucks his cock like a cheap B-rated porn star on the unmade bed. He alternates between deep throating with a bob and wet licking with a slurp. Stray red curls tickle Lars's pelvis as Dave works Lars up to orgasm.

He writhes on the bed, underneath Dave's hands. Fingertips roll and squeeze and rub. A stray finger slips and slides on sensitive sweaty skin, and it's all too much too fast. Lars bows off the bed and further into Dave's mouth, grips the sheets, twists them in his fingers and grunts, pants, heaves, sighs, breathes.

Dave's lips trail cum and saliva kisses from his pelvis to his chest. He props his tanned chin on Lars's pale sternum and grins. Lars smiles weak in return. He scratches behind Dave's head and tugs on the red curls.

David Bowie fades out and Prince pounds its way up into their room. There are loud moans coming from the room next door. It's probably Dave's client tonight and a chick Dave probably paid off to fuck the guy.

Lars's smile fades and his hand drops from Dave's neck. He leans back on the pillows and opens his mouth.

Dave doesn't notice the change. He hops off the bed for the table and the mirror. He chops lines.

"Wanna take a hit then another round?" Dave looks up from his handiwork, grinning ear-to-ear. "You can go first."

Prince moans in time with the chick next door. There's laughs and sucks coming from all around, above and below the floor. Maybe from outside the window too. Maybe from the LA strip down below.

Lars pulls himself up and sits against the headboard. His hands rest in his naked, cold lap.

"You know I can't stay."

Dave's smile wanes. "Why? Cuz Lone said so? She need you back so Gunner doesn't ask questions?"

The headboard next door crashes in the wall. It repeats over and over again.

"I have to go soon," Lars says.

Dave laughs hysterically. He bends down and snorts a line from the mirror. He's still laughing even as he wipes his nose.

Lars is sure then that Dave isn't taking his words the way he wants. Squeaks and squeals muffle Lars's next words, the ones that would've clarified everything, that he can't stay, there's no way, it's just the month and that's it. Nothing else, nothing more. He tries again, but the words are swallowed whole by a female shriek and a male bellow.

The silence that follows amplify Dave's whisper words.

"You know they don't give two shits about you like I do."

There's something stinging in his eyes — it's gotta be from the lights outside shining through the window, it has to be — and there's a heaviness on his chest. But Lars doesn't have the knowledge to pinpoint it or the words to describe it. So he does what he knows best: shuts down and accepts.

Dave mounts the bed and Lars's lap. Dave pulls his hands away. Dave plants them to the matress. Dave grinds into his pelvis. Dave kisses his lips. Dave smiles and grinds again.

"Stay," Dave murmurs. "Stay here forever."

Lars says nothing. Dave takes it as an invitation.

He stays quiet as Dave kisses him, sucks his cock, fucks him over and over all night. He says nothing as Dave holds his body and thrusts into his ass. Lars focuses on Dave's breathing and Dave's cock more than Dave's loving words — they're loving, he can feel them murmured on his neck — and Dave's soft kisses.

Sometime between his second and third orgasm, Lars gazes out the window and watches the glittering fairy-fake-tale lights of Sunset illuminate and cascade and soak and fabricate everything in this city, in this world he knows too well for his liking. He knows he should feel something to this, and like usual, he doesn't.

He bucks into Dave's thrusts, comes again, feels and fucks and sucks and that's all he does, that's all he knows, and he stays, he stays forever it feels like, with the coke and the kisses and the grasps, with the Sunset lights and the cock in his ass and the cum on his lips, oh yeah it's home, it's home alright, it's fucking home, it's what he knows, welcome to Los Angeles, welcome home Lars, welcome home.

 

It's another morning when Lars wakes. He's sore and fucked up, hungover on five shades of even more fucked up bullshit. There's a bitterness in his throat, cum and beer and way more cocaine than usual. He has to brush his teeth and wash his mouth a few times to get rid of it all.

Gunner, Lone and his step sisters don't acknowledge him when he arrives downstairs in his boxers and a ratty old Judas Priest t-shirt. The maid serves him his usual breakfast: Cherrios with banana slices and mango orange juice. He finishes it in five minutes. He doesn't even taste it.

He glances around the table when he's done. His step-sisters mouth lines for an audition. Gunner fingers through his schedule book. Lone reads from the newspaper. It's the typical morning he's seen for the past seventeen years, eighteen in a week and half's time now.

Lars stands up and pushes away from the table.

"I don't remember seeing that shirt before," Lone says.

She looks up from the newspaper. Lars and Lone stare at each other. Gunner and his step-sisters don't notice their look.

"Is it from Denmark? Did Torben give it to you?" she asks.

"Berkeley."

"Who gave it to you?"

"En ven."

"English, Lars."

"A friend."

"I asked for who."

"My roommate."

"I see."

The maid takes his plate away. She walks over to Lone and refills her cup of coffee.

"It's big and ugly on you." Lone turns back to the newspaper. "I never want to see you in it again. It's unbecoming."

Lars's hands turn into fists. His face remains composed.

Lone sips some coffee. She places the cup beside the paper. "Just because you live in Berkeley doesn't mean you have to look like trash."

The knuckles whiten. His thumbs run over his pale skin as he stares at his mother.

"Did you rip my poster?"

She doesn't look up from her newspaper.

"Did you rip the Ritchie Blackmore poster Da got signed for me?"

She glances up from the words.

"I don't know what 'Da' is, Lars. Speak English."

"Torben."

She returns back to the printed words on the gray paper. She smoothes the edges out with one hand, then reaches of her mug.

"Now why would I go and do that?"

She takes a few sips. She reads the paper.

His nails dig into his palms. His fingers crack.

"My mistake."

Lone takes another sip and places it on the table again. "You're too pale. Get a tan."

He nods again, turns around and leaves the room. He thanks the maid on his way out. He goes upstairs, calls Dave who says he'll be there in five, gets dressed, brushes his teeth again for good measure, goes downstairs, says goodbye to his family who don't respond as usual, runs to Dave's station wagon, hops in, listens to Aerosmith and sinks into the pleather seat, wanting and hoping to seep right into its fake exterior, its even faker interior and forget.

 

More parties, more drinking, more drugs. More moans, more groans, more snores. Orgasms and cum, white lines and white teeth, red lips and red wine. Laughs and snorts, giggles and guffaws, bright lights and brighter smiles. Sunset Strip and the Hollywood Freeway, the big hair and the bigger boots, beaches and tans, sun and surf, high skirts and low shirts. And it all comes with a Blondie-Beatles soundtrack.

Welcome home Lars, this place says to him, welcome home. This is where you belong. Not up there, not in the North, not in the Bay, not with Cliff. It's here, it's always been here, it always will be. Welcome here, welcome to LA, welcome home.

Dave is all around him like LA is. Dave consumes him like the drugs do. Dave takes everything away like the alcohol does. Dave makes him forget. LA makes him forget.

Smokes and beers. Long drives down the freeway, down Pacific Highway, down the street, down the hall, down goes Dave's head, down into his pants, down goes Lars's hands, down into Dave's pants.

He's reflecting everyone around him, everyone in the club. People are sucking each other's faces off, removing clothes, scratching skin. They're doing the same. It feels right, it is right, it's home. It's what custom dictates. Everything is the same. Nothing's change. It's safe. It's cool. It's fine.

So why is he thinking about Berkeley and Cliff and his birthday coming up? Why bother? Why think? Why this? Why now?

Lars sinks into Dave's tanned skin and forces whines, bucks, hisses, any type of response. Anything at all. And Dave does respond. Dave gives just as good back. It's enough for now. Enough to forget.

They fuck, they suck, they cum. It's an orgiastic bliss, the whitest white hope of them all in sweat and semen and sighs, one that Lars is addicted to even more than the cocaine and the alcohol. It's bliss he needs, craves, draws on and finds in Dave, in the club, in LA, and it's familiar, home, good.

When they're done for the night and Dave drops Lars off at his house, he finds he can't sleep. He snorted a lot tonight. But Dave was paying attention. He knows Dave was paying attention. He trusts Dave. He knows Dave. He hasn't been on coke for awhile and Dave knows that so Dave wouldn't fuck up.

There was a lot of coke tonight. He did a lot of lines. They fucked a lot too. Maybe it was too much. Maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe he didn't know. It was fun though. It was fun. He liked it. Dave liked it. It was safe. It was cool. It was fine. It was fun. Fun.

Hours later, somewhere around four in the morning, he's still awake. He wants to pop in some pills to get him to sleep finally, but he knows they won't work. They never do. So he grabs the keys to his Shelby GT, turns on the radio and goes for a drive.

He drives down Sunset to Wilshire and then to the 405 north to Sherman Oaks and then a left to Encino all the way to Ventura and then heads back to Tarzana and then through Calabasas and then gets off at Westlake Village and drives down 23 through the mountains to Pacific Highway and then follows the beach on the right hand side all the way down to Malibu, passes Pepperdine and onto Santa Monica and he almost makes the turn to go to Culver but decides to head down Venice to go to back to Wilshire instead.

Lars comes to a red light when he's at Wilshire. He's almost tempted to go through it. There's no one around except for some hooker in the corner looking for a john and the homeless guy in the alleyway looking for a bite to eat in the dumpster. So he could drive through and no one would be the wiser.

Like his parents. Like Dave.

The light turns green. Three lights later, he stops at another red one. His fingers tap to the beat of Aerosmith's Last Child on the radio. He looks around and up and notices a billboard sign for some sort of resort at Glendale or whatever. But all he can see is the text, bolded and big, enormous and all-encompassing:

Disappear Here.

His heart seizes and his breathing stops. Disappear Here. He steps on the gas and takes the fastest route back to Bel-Air. Disappear Here. He parks his Shelby GT into the garage, almost forgets to set the emergency break, forgets to lock the car, runs through the house and up the stairs and skids onto the bed. Disappear Here.

Sweat drips into his eyes. He wipes it away with trembling hands. Lars fights the urge to rip his hair out with his shaking hands. He falls backwards onto the bed, buries his face into his pillow and bites the fabric to keep from screaming.

 

Lars wakes up to the maid knocking on his door. He unburies his face from the pillow and looks at her.

"Mr. Mustaine is outside waiting for you."

"Tell him I'm sick."

She stands there at the half-open door with an o-shaped mouth. Like she's actually, truly shocked at what he says. But her eyes aren't wide or big.

"Okay" is her response. She leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

Lars sits up and stumbles to his bathroom. He stares at himself in the mirror. The green of his eyes stand out against the red veins. There's dark bags, thick and heavy, under each socket. Snot runs down his nose. His hair is ragged, unkempt, and dirty.

He looks at his skin. His eight-year-old Los Angelian tan from age nine to age seventeen doesn't exist anymore. She's right, Dave's right, everyone's right — he's pale. He looks more like a foreigner than ever before.

He takes a piss, washes his hands, washes his face, brushes his teeth, brushes his hair, goes to the window and looks outside for Dave's station wagon. He sees it start up and drive off down the street at top speed, the engine roaring. He keeps staring even as the maid knocks on his door again.

"He said he hopes you feel better and he'll call later on today," she says.

Lars nods. The door closes.

Again, he feels that same thing from before. The whole drooping-heaviness sensation complete with the sting in his eyes. Those fucking tears. They're annoying as fucking hell and he wants them fucking gone; but he can't figure out how to get rid of them if he doesn't know how they start.

He stumbles back to bed and reburies his face into his pillow. "Disappear Here" floats in his mind, haunts beneath his eyelids, and he bites onto the pillow's fabric to keep the sting and the hurt from amplifying even more.

For the next three days Dave shows up and constantly drops off the cheap cans of soup from the local supermarket that not even homeless people would eat. He asks about Lars and how he feels, and each time, Lars tells the maid to tell him he'll be fine eventually. He calls the house and Lars never picks up, so Dave leaves messages for the maid to relay to him. Lars never reads them.

He waits for the house to be empty to break out his record player and dig through his albums. Lone is always the last to go, like her instincts are telling her Lars is going to break her cardinal rule: no music in the house.

Lars sends the maid out on a bunch of errands like old times, to get her away from the house and the possibility of her snitching to Lone or Gunner. He waits until he sees her car move out of the driveway and speed down the road — everyone in LA drove fast — then he makes a beeline for his records.

The records of his childhood lay untouched and dusty in the place he left them: in a large box next to his even dustier Ludwig drumkit. He reaches in and pulls them out and onto his lap. He sits on the ground and looks at them in awe. They're not ruined, not touched, not gone completely like his Blackmore poster is.

Lars sighs in relief and fingers through the albums he brought with him from Denmark. Black Sabbath's first five albums, Uriah Heep's first six albums, Queen's first four albums — the later three he had to fight Lone destroying because Torben sent them to him, UFO's first three — the later one he had to fight for as well, and Deep Purple's first seven.

He fingers through them all, marvels at the album covers, at holding them in his hands again, and stops at a Deep Purple one. Lars stares at the cover of In Rock for a few seconds, runs a hand over the smooth top.

Thick memories he held dear cloud his mind and Lars allows it to happen. He slips out the vinyl, goes to the record player and lets the album play. He lies down on the ground, folds his arms over his chest and closes his eyes.

Speed King starts, followed by Bloodsucker. They're two good songs, great songs by Lars's standards. But it's when the next one starts that he loses himself in the song and the memory he's treasured all his life.

They had been driving so fast Lars couldn't catch everything outside his window. It had been raining that day when it should've been snowing. Lars liked the rain in December, but he wanted one more snowfall before he left.

The sky was murky and grey that day, with no end in sight. He tried to find the mermaid statue vainly as they drove, passing all these blurred buildings and people. But he remembered the area was for cyclists and pedestrians only. There was no way he could've seen the mermaid statue one last time.

Everything had passed by his window too quickly. The candy store his parents used to take him to, the park he and his cousins used to play in, the jazz club his dad worked in — they all vanished in one sharp turn after another, all gone before he could engrave them to memory.

He remembers Lone and Gunner talking obnoxiously loud up in front. They were laughing and giggling at something in English, a language he hadn't quite learned back then. He tried to pick up a few phrases, but they were talking too fast. He wanted them to shut up so he could hear his favorite Deep Purple song on the radio. But neither of them would've listened. So he had shut up and listened to what he could.

Lars closes his eyes like he did then, and hears the words to the song. He still knows these words so well. _Sweet child in time_ , he sings in his mind, _you'll see the line, the line that's drawn between good and bad..._

He holds tight onto the album In Rock, the first and only album he ever bought. His little hands couldn't hold the album to his chest like he can now. The song resonates so loud in the room, thumps and pulses like any song in the clubs he frequents. He grins big as the song roars and screams, Blackmore's solo curling and twisting his mind just like it did then, all of it ending on a chaotic beautiful note. It's the most beautiful song in the world.

From below he vaguely hears a car pull into the driveway. He turns off the music just as Gunner's voice beckons for him from downstairs. He places the album back in its spot carefully and rushes downstairs, humming the melody line behind smiling lips.

 

Later on that afternoon, Lars leaves the house. No one asks him where he goes. Lone says, "Are you gonna be on time for dinner?" Lars says, "No I don't think so." Lone says, "Get your own meal then." Lars says, "Okay."

He drives down Wilshire to Santa Monica to Venice to Culver City to West LA then back to Westwood, back to Wilshire, reaches to outskirts of Sunset and then backtracks all the way to Santa Monica again, which kills so much time because of the traffic that makes him stop-and-go every few seconds. 

He glances at the clock when he's on Santa Monica, sees that it's 6PM, and decides to drive down to Malibu.

There's a lot of people on the beach as there are on the streets, which doesn't surprise him in the least. He finds a decent parking space and walks the few blocks he has to the beachfront.

Girls in skimpy outfits drenched from head to toe glance at him, tanned and blonde and beautiful. Guys drenched from head to toe glance at him, tanned and blonde and beautiful. They're weirded out by how he looks, he can tell, what with his pale skin and Sabbath tee, ragged brown hair and torn blue jeans. And he's fine by it. Just fine.

Lars sits on the sand. The ocean's foam tickles his feet. The sky is painted in pink, orange and purple hues. Palm trees rustle in the ocean wind. He stares across the churning Pacific, beyond the gentle waves, to where the sun dips and the line between land and sky meet.

The familiar sting returns against his wishes as he thinks of the phrase that has haunted him too much to his liking. Just like the Van Halen song. Just like the pale comments. Just like his family. Just like Dave. Just like LA.

Disappear here.

He's still in Malibu even when the sun is gone and most of the people are too. He leaves the beach, goes to his car and drives to a sea Cliff overlooking everything. The moon reflects on the churning waters, and though the sight should be soothing, it just adds to the thoughts running crazy in his head.

Disappear here. Am I going to deal? Speak English. What am I doing here? You're pale. What do you want for your birthday? English, Lars. I need to stop this. Didn't you go to Stanford? It's livable. Is he alive or dead? Geddy Lee and all things Rush. Welcome home Lars. Disappear here. Hej mor. English. Berkeley. No one cares about what a Bezerklian says, only a Stanford scholar. Am I going to accept this? Has he thoughts inside his head? Stay here. How's the hell-hole? Fleur de Lys. Moldy cheese. How about money? People are afraid to drive. It's weed. I have to go soon. They're fuckin' idiots. Did you rip my poster? We'll just pass him there. This is all I know. Step on the gas and go. That's all I do. Stay here forever. Disappear here. Why should we even care?

Lars leans forward and rests his forehead onto the steering wheel he grasps tight in both of his hands. He takes a few deep breaths in the silence. Then, he starts to hum the melody to Child in Time. He hums the entire ten minute song like a broken record, again and again, until his throat hurts.

He sits in silence afterwards for awhile. His throat and lips and head pulse in time, a steady rhythm that mixes well with the ringing in his ears. He has no idea what time it is when he leaves the beach and heads back home, only that it's really late and nothing more.

 

On the fourth night of calling in sick to Dave, Lars dresses in his Sabbath tee and leaves the house. Gunner and Lone are busy doing paperwork in the living room, and his sisters are out celebrating their successful auditions. No one pays any attention to him like usual, and he's glad about it for once.

He avoids the usual haunts in fear of running into Dave, so he goes to the area he doesn't know at all. He drives to the opposite end of Sunset, the far end of it, the area no Bel-Air boy should go, especially in a car like this. But Lars just doesn't give a shit anymore. If the car gets ruined or stolen or whatever, so be it. His mom can bitch at him and pay for it later.

Lars goes down one road, makes a turn, drives a few blocks, makes another turn, drives a few blocks, makes a u-turn, and drives down one block. He hums Child in Time the entire time, sometimes mouthing the words, sometimes singing in a soft whisper to himself. It's better than listening to the Van Halen marathon that's practically on every radio station still, or Blondie, or Prince, or all the regular stuff. For once, he wants to not hear it. For once, he wants to hear what he wants. For once.

He eventually parks at some shady bar called Whip-what? Whatever. It didn't matter. The place looks run down and fucked up, nothing trendy or sexy or welcoming. Blondie won't be played here. David Bowie is probably seen as Satan. Who cares. It's the exact opposite of everything he knows. It's perfect.

Inside it's everything Lars was taught to never become: the drunks and the drifters, the seedy and the sultry, the lost and the damned, all your death warrant, all your demise if you make one wrong move or one wrong look. Lars knows well enough how to handle himself against these folk — his Da hanged around them sometimes — but it's been eight years since he last was in a place like this, and even then, he was with someone. With his Da.

He takes a stool at the end of the bar, shows the bartender his fake ID and orders himself a Bud. A few give him looks. Others lean into each other while staring. Once in awhile, a snicker floats in the air, accompanied by narrowed glints, but they leave him alone. Live and let live is the key of the game, one that Lars appreciates. It's something you don't find on Sunset and its bejeweled, dolled-up demons.

One beer becomes two. Two beers become three. On the fourth one, Lars notices a few men at the bar have turned around. He follows their line of sight to a stage he didn't see at first.

There's a meager drumkit like the Ludwig one he has at home, a blue bass, a keyboard, a few monitors and one mic. It's a shitty PA system, but it doesn't matter. The bar is small enough to hear whatever the band plays.

The band walks from the shadows of the backstage. The crowd cheers half-heartedly. The lights are shitty, barely light up the stage. The band doesn't seem to care though. They go to their instruments.

A curly brown haired guy takes the bass. Some guy chewing gum beneath a mop of black sits behind the kit. This big looking fellow reminiscent of a pro NFL quarterback rests his fingers on the keyboard.

Lars snickers into his drink at the mismatched hodgepodge of musicians on stage. They all look awkward and nervous, young and fearful. He assumes they are his age or a year older. Definitely not in their twenties, though maybe NFL Guy is mid-twenties. He can't tell for sure.

One more emerges from the back with long blonde hair and a zit-covered face. He sports an Aerosmith shirt, a belt made of fake bullets, blue jeans and white sneakers. Lars hears the Sunset-brainwashed side of himself snort in disgust at his fashion faux pas, and he silences it with another chug from his beer. The guitar looks metal enough, more than metal. A white flying V. Even Cliff would be impressed by it.

Zit-boy walks up to the mic. "Uh." Zit-boy looks around the crowd, squinting against the lights. "Hi."

Lars shakes his head. He drinks more beer.

"We're, uh, the Black Dogs," Zit-boy gets out in a rush of air. "We, er, play some covers... yeah. So. We're gonna start off with... a song that we're sure you guys all know. A, uh, tribute. Yeah."

He steps away from the mic, the drummer counts off, and it's a goddamn Van Halen song, clearly a tribute to fucking band. It's the same shit Lars has surrounded by for what seems an eternity.

Lars watches them play with mild interest. He finishes his fourth beer and asks for one more. He knows this is his last one, so he nurses it for awhile. The Van Halen tribute finishes and the band heads into a Queen tune, the radio favorite lately.

The crowd of the bad, the ugly, and the wretched all bounce and clap and sing with the band on stage. They're not reacting to the way the band is playing. They're smiling and singing only because they know the tunes, and that's all they care about. The same garbage that's played over and over again.

Lars's face sours at the sour note Zit-Boy hits and at his own thoughts. He should get up and go. Seeing a band again live is good, it's great even, but not like this. Not when he had the greatest band ever in front of him at the age of nine. Not when he saw the gods of Deep Purple tear Copenhagen down and destroy whatever perceptions little Lars back then had about music. Not when he had everything he ever wanted in life. When he thought things couldn't get any better. When he was truly happy.

The band finishes and so does Lars. He stands up, pays for the last one, and gets ready to leave. Lars finds the keys to his car, glances at the awkward live band and Zit-boy and heads to the exit.

His hand barely touches the door when he hears notes he hasn't heard live in nine years reach his ears.

Lars's hears himself gasp, but he doesn't feel it. Maybe everyone can hear how his teeth chatter and his stomach heaves. Maybe they can hear how his breath stopped. Maybe they're engrossed in the music. Maybe they don't care. Maybe they don't understand.

The guitar. Jesus Christ, the guitar.

He turns his head and body back to the stage, drops his hand to his side and watches the band again. Only this time, he's not laughing, he's not criticizing. He's paying full attention, to Zit-boy — maybe he shouldn't call him Zit-boy anymore — and the music that hurts and burns more than Lars will admit outside of the confines of his mind.

It's like some sort of transformation occurred between that third and fourth beer. He's still got the cracked, red-zitted face, the awkward stance, the white shoes that clash with his outfit. But the blond locks frame his serene face. His hands are sure and steady playing the guitar. He looks like Blackmore, like Page, like every band Lars remembers.

_Sweet child in time, you'll see the line_ , he sings low and soft into the mic. _The line that's drawn between the good and the bad. See the blind man shooting at the world, bullets flying, taking toll._

The crowd revolts against the song they don't know. There's jeers, there's snorts, there's shouts, there's yells. Change the fucking song, they scream. Give us more Aerosmith, they bellow. More this radio song, more that radio classic.

Radio radio radio _if you've been bad, oh Lord_ , what fucking song is this, _I bet you have_ , this sucks, who the hell sings this shit anyway, _and you've been hit by flying lead_ change the goddamn song _you better close your eyes_ change it change it change it _and bow your head_ Zit-boy's blue eyes stare out beyond the crowd, Lars is sure they're meeting eye-to-eye, maybe not, does it matter _and wait for the ricochet._

Zit-boy smiles boyish, awkward. A red blush blossoms on his cheeks as the crowd's yells turn vicious and threatening. "Not Deep Purple fans are ya?"

He rips into Smoke on the Water, the fan favorite, and the crowd's demeanor changes instantly. People sing along to the familiar riff, some sing the words, and Lars should too, he knows this song well, but he doesn't. He never liked it to begin with.

Lars leans against the corner of the wall between the door out and the bathroom. He comes back into his body and takes notice of a few things: he's shaking, his face feels hot, and his nose is running. He lifts a trembling hand to his cheek, wipes at it with a few fingers and draws it back.

Even with the dim light, Lars sees the unmistakable shine of wetness on his fingertips.


	2. Part Two

A half hour of radio favorites passes. The band takes a ten minute break between sets. Lars debates whether or not to walk over and say hi. By the time he gets the balls to stand up and do so, the band is back on the stage, ready to play another radio-known song. Lars sits back at the bar, orders a plate of food to sober up and watches them play again.

Another half-hour goes by. The band finishes as Lars finishes eating. Bass Player, Gum Chewer and NFL Guy shake hands with Zit-boy. They jump off the stage and spread out through the bar, talk to a bunch of people, mingle, discuss, laugh, whatever.

Zit-boy lingers behind on the stage. He places the Flying V in a scratched, second-rate guitar case, wraps up his wires half-assed, places them in the inside compartment, and closes it up. He notices band patches on the guitar case and makes out only three: Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin. The others he doesn't know.

Lars watches Zit-boy act cordial to a few people. He observes his mannerisms and actions, judges what kind of person he is by his smiles, laughs, and touches. By the time Zit-boy hops off the stage — he really needs to give the guy a new name — Lars feels an attraction to him. He's got an undeniable magnetism with uncontrollable strength and abundant talent buried underneath that reserved and polite exterior.

This guy definitely isn't a Zit-boy. He can't be labeling him that. Lars takes out a few bills to pay for his meal, his eyes still on the guy. Definitely not Zit-boy. Exterior is one thing. Talent is another.

Lars takes his time standing up from the bar. He feigns fatigue or drunkness, maybe both, anything to stall himself from really leaving the bar and thus missing the opportunity to observe this man more. His eyes divert to the floor. White sneakers and the bottom of a dirty old guitar case come close to the bar.

"A Bud, please," comes a deep, throaty voice, exhausted from the gig. It's utterly Southern Californian, but it doesn't reek Sunset Boulevard. It's real and honest, rugged and shy. It makes Lars smile. 

He turns away from the bar, and as he does so, he glances at former Zit-boy. Their eyes meet in that split second, and Lars sees just how open, wide and _blue_ those eyes are.

He knows he should say something, anything in that small window of a connection they have. Do something. A smile. A nod. Any form of acknowledgment that affirmed yes, Lars enjoyed the performance — _enjoying didn't even fucking cover it_ — and that he appreciates it more than anything.

Lars turns his head fully around and walks to the door, stumbling a bit in his steps. 

He leaves the bar, makes it to his car in one piece, and slumps into the driver's seat. 

Everything spins in a topsy-turvy alcohol-induced Disneyland ride, so he relaxes into the leather until everything finally calms down.

_Chickenshit_ is the first word that registers in his mind. _Chickenshit_ repeats in his mind, followed by _idiot._ It's all topped by a stream of consciousness at its most disjointed and fucked-up finest: _chickenshit dumbshit piece of shit motherfucker what the fucking hell you goddamn idiot you could've at least smiled or something what's the matter with you he's probably your age to begin with jesus shit who the fuck else knows Deep fucking Purple in this godforsaken city not even Dave does because Dave doesn't know anything good from his ass in the hole in the ground only thing he knows about what's good is good smack and that's it shit Ulrich you fucked up and you know it shit and you didn't even get his name you're probably gonna call him Zit-boy your entire life—_

The succession of knocks at his window jolts Lars out of his thoughts. 

He jerks his neck up from the headrest and whips his head around in the direction of the knocking.

Outside in the cold is former Zit-boy, one hand falling away from the window.

Lars notices something in his other hand, and it takes him a second to realize it's his wallet.

He rolls down the window. 

Former Zit-boy smiles and hands out to Lars his wallet. "Almost forgot this at the bar, man."

"Thanks." He throws it onto the passenger seat without looking away. "You played well."

Former Zit-boy shrugs. "Pays the bills." He leans down and picks up the handle to his guitar case with one hand and his bottle of beer in the other. He takes a swig of his beer, still eyeing Lars. When he pulls it away, he tilts the rounded top to the Shelby. "Nice car."

"Thanks. It's gets me places."

"Looks like it. Mine's in the shop 'til tomorrow." He pivots to the side and salutes with the hand holding the beer. "Well, see ya around."

"See ya."

Lars watches former Zit-boy stroll away from the bar, stop at the light, cross the street, and continue down the block. He stops watching when he can't make out his form anymore in the darkness of the block.

Fo a few seconds, Lars stares at the steering wheel.

Then his hand comes up in a fist and he bashes it a few times. 

He moves his fist to his head and bashes the side of his temple once. 

He unravels his fist and his palm collides with his thigh.

"Hi, my name is Lars, what's yours. What's so fucking hard about that, dickhead?"

His fingers drum on his thigh while he glares at his steering wheel. He breathes harsh. The drumming eventually slows at a tempered pace then peters off into nothing.

He takes a few deep breaths. He sits in his car in silence.

His eyebrows shoot up and his eyes widen.

He bursts out of the car and runs back inside. He finds the bartender there like he never moved.

Lars asks, "I need to know where else Black Dogs plays." The bartender says, "They play here every Monday, Wednesday and Friday." Lars asks, "Anywhere else?" The bartender says, "Yeah, Tuesday and Thursday they're at some other bar in Downey, the Lagoon I think." Lars nods and bolts out without a thanks.

He hops back in the car. Blondie's radio hit Call Me greets him when he turns on the car. Lars drives away from the bar, back to Sunset and Bel-Air.

A different name. He has to come up with a different name. Zit-boy will just not do at all.

 

Saturday afternoon Lars gets a call from Dave. Weekends usually mean club hopping, which leads to drugs and sex, then to alcohol and more sex.

Dave rambles about a party near Wilshire for a few minutes. He pauses here and there to take long breaths and sip obnoxiously from who knows what. Soda can or beer bottle, it doesn't matter.

When he stops talking for Lars's answer, Lars says no.

"Come on, it's gonna be fun,” Dave says.

"I've got family shit.”

“Make an excuse and get out of it then."

"I can't. Lone's serious about it."

"Fuck that bitch! You need to come, it's gonna be amazing and you don't wanna miss it."

"Look, I can't. Try tomorrow, okay?"

Dave accepts his answer, vows to call again tomorrow at the same time, and hangs up.

The rest of the day Lars lounges in his room. He finishes this horror book Cliff instructed him to read, draws in his notebook, reorganizes his record collection and dusts the furniture. The rest of the time, he lets his mind float and daydream.

He fantasizes about old black-haired smooth-faced Ritchie Blackmore on stage in Copenhagen, and the new blonde-haired zit-faced Ritchie Blackmore on stage in shady LA. He still daydreams even as he eats his dinner with Lone, Gunner and his step-sisters. He allows the images to haunt and follow him even as he lies in bed and stares at his ripped Blackmore poster.

_Do you still need this?_ is still posted on Blackmore's face. Black ink against yellow paper. 

Lars soaks it into his memory, buries the pieces under his pillow and falls asleep with the images of black-haired Blackmore and blonde-hair Blackmore in his head.

Usually when Lars dreams, he can make out something coherent. There's a storyline, some characters, a general beginning and a simple ending. It's like a little movie. But everything distorts and changes so much that when he wakes up, nothing really makes sense and the entire recollection of the thing is rather pointless. He stores the dreams away like memories regardless, as if they were missing and all he needed to do was to sleep in order to get them back. He doesn't know why he really does it other than to amuse himself.

The dreamworld he lives in takes the day's triumphs and woes and meld with the ones of his past. They create this new world filled with everything he's ever known and wishes he would know. It's all crazy, all original, all disjointed and free and ungodly fucking stupid, like Barry Manilow and Sabbath meeting in a Doors-Zepp Dark Side Camelot world on a bad acid trip at night in the San Gabriel Mountains. Or just a bad acid trip all together. Sometimes, they make sense. Sometimes there's a hidden metaphor to his dreams. A little bit. Maybe. He's not completely sure.

He's probably trying too hard to figure out what his dreams really are saying. Maybe there's nothing to them at all, just fragments of thought and imagination running wild in his subconscious that he conjures up here and there when he sleeps. Maybe he's trying to find purpose to something purposeless, a meaning to something meaningless.

But everything has to have a purpose. Everything has a reason to exist. At least, that's what his science teacher told him. She told him and the rest of the class nothing happens without thought. A person thinks they didn't think it but really they did without conscious thinking. Dave figured she was full of shit, probably high on the weed he fed her. Dave always found a way around the system.

Once in awhile though, he dreams memories. Real ones. Dreams about his childhood. Dreams about Copenhagen. Dreams about Berkeley, dreams about LA. Dreams about what he happened the day before, dreams about Dave. Dreams about floating on the endless Pacific towards the sun, dreams about driving through the desert towards the moon. They don't mesh together like his dreams usually do. They're individual and separate from each other. Singular identities. Most of the time, he dreams of floating away from the beaches of LA down the Pacific right to the sun. Those are the nice dreams. The nice ones.

Tonight he dreams of what could be. What might happen tomorrow. What he will say to blonde-haired Ritchie Blackmore with his white Flying V and his white sneakers. What Ritchie might play in the club. What Ritchie might say to himself. And it makes him smile in his sleep at the endless possibilities, as endless as the Pacific he constantly dreams of.

 

Lars wakes up way too early for any sane person on Monday morning. The sun isn't even up yet as he puts on his Sabbath tee and blue jeans. There's no way he can subdue the giddy energy he has; it humanly impossible for him.

He makes his own breakfast like he hasn't since he was a kid. Cereal isn't much of a chore, but it takes him time to find where the milk is in the gigantic refrigerator they have.

It's stupid for him to leave a note telling his family he left early and won't be home until late tonight. So he addresses the note to the maid instead, so she can inform the family when they wake in the next hour or two.

All day Lars spends it outside the house, driving around aimlessly in Los Angeles. He doesn't stop at the same place twice. A few minutes in Westwood, a half-hour in Pacific Palisades, an hour Santa Monica. He eats fast food of the greasiest finest, hamburgers and french fries and coke. It's liberating, exciting, filling.

Nightfall comes fast, almost blindsiding Lars with its sudden arrival. He doesn't mind it. He accepts it, wants it, encourages it. The more the darkness, the closer the show. And the closer the show, the closer to Ritchie again.

He drives on the 405 to Sunset, then drives on the opposite side of Sunset like before. In no time he sees the bar from before — Whip something or another, it doesn't matter what the name is — and parks in the same place like last time.

Again the crowd turns to him when he enters, but they say nothing. Second time here, so he's not a newcomer anymore. No need to evaluate and postulate and wonder and snicker. He's not fresh meat, but weird enough to stare at for a minute or two. After all, anyone who drives to this side of town in a Shelby GT must be a weirdo.

The seat from that night waits for him, empty and untaken, and he slips onto it with ease. He orders some food, the same as before, and orders a drink, the same as before. Comfort stuff, maybe. If a beer and chips could be called comfort food. 

Show starts right on time. Like before, NFL Guy, Gum Chewer, and Bass Player come out first, followed by former Zit-Boy, now deemed Ritchie Blackmore. They play the same set as before the first half-hour, all these tunes Lars has heard before on the radio and is pretty damn sick and tired of.

Van Halen opens, crowd cheers. 

Led Zeppelin closes, crowd cheers. 

The same kind of bullshit. All the same. Tributes, covers, hurrah.

And then it starts. The light picking of the guitar. The cascade of blonde hair over a zit-covered face. The bowed head, the agile fingers. 

A soft voice whispering into the mic _sweet child in time, you'll see the line._ A roaring crowd yelling on top of their lungs _what the fuck kind of song is this._

A whisper sings along with Ritchie, and Lars realizes quite suddenly it's himself.

The crowd doesn't simmer down. It roars loud, obnoxiously loud, wants a different song, wants a radio favorite. Lars wants nothing more than to throw his bowl of chips their way and tell them to shut the fuck up, that they don't understand, that they can't and never will. But it's no use, it doesn't matter. Ritchie raises his head, finishes the verse, then launches into goddamn Smoke on the Water.

Thirty minutes later, the band ends, and go their separate ways. Ritchie walks to the bar, the same old guitar case in hand. But Lars doesn't look away when he stands next to him, ordering a beer. He looks straight at him, ignores the butterflies in his stomach _what the fuck, butterflies?_ and waits for a reaction.

Ritchie's blue eyes turn to him. There's only a small moment of hesitance until they grow big, alight with recognition. Lars's stomach and lungs clench at the same time. He smiles at Ritchie despite the pain.

"Good show," he manages.

A shy smile appears on Ritchie's face. He looks… surprised. Confused? Lars can't pin-point it, but he knows there is no ill-will intention, and that alone unclenches his insides.

The bartender slams the beer bottle onto the wooden surface. Ritchie picks it up and takes a swig in front of Lars's face, without looking away. 

He pulls it back, and like before, tilts it in Lars's direction, a mock salute.

"Thanks for comin' dude." Ritchie takes the bottle and his case, walks to the door and leaves.

Lars sits at the bar and finishes his beer. He doesn't go after Ritchie, doesn't ask his name, doesn't do anything. He listens to the PA system in the bar and drains his bottle.

Aerosmith switches into Led Zeppelin. He thinks about Ritchie Blackmore instead of Robert Plant as he places the money on the counter and heads out. Thinks about Ritchie and his agile hands and his sweet voice, not Plant and his tight jeans and his fucking white birds. And it's strong enough to make Lars smile all the way back to Bel-Air, even when he hears Led Zeppelin once again on his car radio.

 

Ten minutes past twelve in the afternoon on Tuesday, the maid shakes Lars awake. "Phone call," she says. "Okay," Lars says, and he waits for her to leave so he can groan and curse to high heaven into his pillow.

He knows damn well who it is on the other end. But when he picks up his bedroom phone, Lars still fancies the idea of it being Ritchie and his Southern California accent waiting for him. Just fancies it, for a second or two. Then fantasy island leaves and reality settles in when he hears Dave's frustrated tones.

"Dude, did I do something to piss you off?"

"No."

"Why didn't you answer me on Sunday? Or today?"

"I'm sick."

"You don't sound sick."

"When's the next party?" Lars sighs.

"Stop dodging the question."

Lars fiddles with the black phone chord. He glances at his bed.

"You didn't do anything."

"Then why won't you let me see you?"

"I just need a break."

"A break from what?"

He lets go of the chord. "Just a break."

"From me?"

"I just needed a break from the scene."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There's shifting, static. 

Lars rubs his eyes. 

Dave sighs and scratches something.

"I miss you,” Dave whispers.

Lars looks out of his bedroom window to the driveway, where the maid trims the hedges of his mother's rose bushes. 

It's another sunny day in Los Angeles, even though it's December. 

Typical.

"I'm going to have to leave sometime."

Dave scoffs. ”Do you _really_ wanna leave?"

Lars stares at rose bushes. Drops of water shine on the lush red petals. They look like blooming pieces of blood. The maid accidentally cuts one off and it hops on the wet grass.

The roses disappear when Ritchie comes into his purview.

He fiddles with the black chord again.

"That's what I thought," Dave says. "I'll see ya soon."

Lars nods absentmindedly and hangs up. He lets go of the black chord and puts the phone back in place. He looks up from the roses bushes to the view of Bel-Air and the sunny outside.

_Do you really wanna leave?_ Dave asks. _Dunno_ is his real answer. Because if he must leave soon... so be it. But not yet. Not until he learns Ritchie's real name.

 

Word on the street travels fast. Thankfully, Lars hears well. Being silent most of the time has it's advantages.

The Black Dogs, they say, they're some stupid band. That's what the glamorous disco popular folk say. Play cover tunes, not really that good. Frontman looks like shit strung out in his white bellbottoms and see-through shirt. Disco folk don't know anything, obviously.

The information passed down does interest him. He hears they aren't playing until Thursday, at the Lagoon in Downey. No reason is given. Lars doesn't want it. 

He drags out Tuesday as long as possible. He drags out Wednesday the same. Dave calls; Gunner questions; Lone bitches. Life goes on.

On Wednesday night, he passes by the old board from a week ago or so. "Disappear Here" in big, bold black letters are illuminated by the night billboard lights, so everyone can see it as they pass on by. So no one could ignore it.

Lars can't stop shaking as he parks his car in the garage and enters the house. "Disappear Here" haunts his mind. The bolded text illuminated by the yellow-sick lights, as yellow as the sky when he first arrived. 

_Has the sky always looked that yellow?_

He lays down and buries his face into the pillow. His hands slip underneath and he slips his fingers over the ripped edges of Blackmore. "Disappear Here" floats in his mind as he succumbs to exhaustion.

_Thursday will be a better day_ , he thinks. _It has to be._

 

Another dream comes and goes, one that makes no sense, just like usual. Tripped-up, fucked-up. Disjointed and dismantled. Like a bad acid trip in the San Gabriel Mountains, cued and taken, right on time.

He enjoys remembering it though when he wakes up. There's not many details to recall, because nothing ever forms remotely linearly when he dreams to begin with. They're like one of his mom's abstract painting she has, the replica one of Pollock. Black lines, white lines, gray lines. All meshed, all splattered. Defying what is normal, defying what is accepted. That's what the dream feels like when he wakes. Not normal, not accepted. Black, white, and grey lines working together to mesh and splatter his mind. Fuck with his perception of reality, like he needed it further fucked with anyway.

The first things to come to mind are blonde-haired, blue-eyed Ritchie and Deep Purple. It's amusing that he's become infatuated with a normal Los Angelian, someone who has the same tanned skin and blonde hair and blue eyes like everyone else. But there's something about him that Lars is drawn to. He's not like everyone else. He's the real blonde-hair, blue-eyed Southern California boy, the real embodiment and not a fake, a wannabe. How someone like Ritchie exists Lars doesn't know, doesn't understand how or why. Everyone blonde-haired and blue-eyed is the same. But not Ritchie. He doesn't excude the familiar aura of wannabe like everyone he's met. He radiates something. Radiates reality.

In the dream, Lars concentrates. When he wakes, he recalls the most important aspects of this dream, the ones he felt subconsciously he should remember: orange sunsets, white shoes, and large hands. They make no sense. But his dreams never do.

He doesn't bother piecing things together as he rubs his sleepy eyes then stares at the ceiling. It's rather pointless, as usual. But it's enough to entertain him through the morning and possibly the rest of the day until later on that night when he would see Ritchie again and hear Blackmore one more time. Until later on that night when he would see blonde-haired, blue-eyed Ritchie Blackmore and find out why he is the way he is.

 

 

When he heads downstairs for breakfast on Thursday, his sisters are missing. He doesn't ask where they are. Gunner and Lone don't tell him where they are. They probably don't know either.

Lars eats his usual breakfast with upper-crust etiquette and utter silence. Gunner flips through his address book, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his large nose. Lone sips her coffee and reads from the newspaper.

He stands up from the table when he's done. Lone looks away from the paper and stares at him.

"Do remember that there are other people who live here when you come home. Otherwise I'll impound your car, since you seem to not understand how loud that garage door sounds at three o'clock in the morning."

She returns to her paper and sips her coffee.

Lars stares at her. His fist clenches.

He nods and leaves the kitchen. Gunner says something to his retreating back, but he's not paying attention anymore.

When he comes downstairs with his leather jacket, Lone says, "Did you hear me?" Lars says, "Yes." Lone says, "Good." Gunner says, "And remember about the Christmas party." Lars says, "Okay."

He exits the house and slams the front door behind him. Lone and Gunner's heads snap up from the table. They stare at each other, startled, for a long time.

Gunner breaks the silence. “He's never done that before.”

 

 

For a change, Rush blasts on the car radio. It suits how Lars is changing directions, going away from Los Angeles and more northwest to La Brea and Downey. Maybe the difference in area contributes to the change in air waves. Too bad he doesn't know the song. It's got a nice beat.

He asks around various gas stations where The Lagoon is. 

Six stations later, no one knows about it. 

He refills his tank when he leaves the eighth station, still clueless.

Two more gas stations later, Lars is ready to go home. Sunlight wanes in the orange-pink sky, signaling nightfall. 

Some kind of Donna Summer tune comes to a close. He stops at a red light and rubs his temples, forehead, the bridge of his nose. 

David Lee Roth's ungodly familiar wail replaces Donna Summer on the stereo. It's the same song as usual. The song he's heard in LA, in Berkeley, in the goddamn whole world probably.

He slams his palm into the volume button, shutting it off. 

Light turns green. Lars drives with one hand on the wheel, the other propping his chin up, elbow on the window. 

Lars stops at another light. Two guys cross the street. He watches them walk, sees the usual bug-eyed gawking faces that he's used to whenever someone sees his car.

One of them has long black hair, kinda curly. The other has long reddish brown hair, really frizzy. He makes eye-contact with them for a second, then looks down at their shirts.

He's pretty sure he's gawking in turn at them, just at the sight of their shirts.

Iron Maiden. Judas Priest.

The light turns green. Lars ignores it.

Both guys cross the road and start to walk away from Lars. He frantically rolls down the window and sticks his head out.

"Hey!" They keep walking. "Hey, Iron Maiden rules!!"

They turn around. They seem genuinely surprised that someone in an expensive car knows a metal band.

"Do you know where The Lagoon is?"

The curly black-haired one nods. "5th and Western Avenue," he replies. The two start to walk to his car. "Me and my bud here were gonna go see our friend's band. Wanna come with?"

"Sure." Lars drives a bit forward, wheels turned in their direction. "Wanna lift?"

They gasp at the question, their expressions widen so far and big Lars is sure their eyes will pop out and their mouths will hit the ground. Lars can't help his snickers.

The loud honking behind Lars startles all three of them. Lars looks behind and sees a car waiting, the driver shaking his fist out the window and looking especially pissed-off behind the wheel.

The side door opens, and the two guys climb in. Frizzy-haired guy takes the cramped backseat without complaint. Curly-haired hops in the passenger seat and slams the door shut. 

Lars uses the power of his Shelby to full advantage and steps on the gas, pleased to see the man's slack jaw and bugged-out eyes in his wake.

He glances at the curly-haired guy and smiles. "Lars."

"John."

"Brian," says the one in the back.

"Thanks for the lift," says John.

Lars shrugs. He speeds through a yellow light and makes it through before it turns red. Western comes up in the distance and Lars makes a smooth turn onto the street.

Besides him, John shouts, "You have a fucking awesome car!" Brian shouts too, "Really motherfuckin' awesome!" Lars says, "I guess I do," and he grins at their incessant gushing and admiration of his Shelby.

 

 

The three of them hit it off well on the way to The Lagoon. Brian and John want to see Black Dogs. Lars says that's cool. He doesn't want to divulge the truth. They ask him if he likes anything else than Sabbath. Lars asks them if they like anything else than Maiden and Priest.

Nightfall hits when they finally reach The Lagoon. Lars is welcomed easily by the bartender and the people there. It helps that John and Brian are regulars at the place. He orders a beer and the bartender slides him one over without ID checking. They continue their chat over chips and Bud.

An hour passes. They've each drunk two beers. Lars nurses his third while Brian and John split the cost of a burger and fries. He politely rejects their offer to eat with them. Instead he lets them eat while he surveys his surroundings.

It's a different atmosphere from the one opposite Sunset. People are laughing, discussing, eating. Less smoke, more drinks. A lot more smiling than frowning. They're not dressed as flashy or as rich. They're real, they're like everyone else, in jeans and t-shirts, in jackets and flip-flops.

He blends in quite nicely with them, but he still feels out of place. This isn't his world. This isn't his turf. There's no whores, no hair, no teeth, no stilettos, no bullshit. There's no game to play, no rules to follow. It's all straight up, blue-collar nonsense. A live-and-let-live aura similar to the bar at home, but more authentic, more real. He's a sheep in a wolf's fur, not the other way around, and he feels exposed, like everyone can see right through his mask. Maybe they're just too nice to call him out on it, another difference from Sunset. Another difference on top of a billion others.

Lars's face sours and he takes another pull from his bottle. He notices John and Brian questioning gazes in his peripheral vision. 

By the time he's through his third bottle, the lights on the stage dim and the crowd cheers. John and Brian stuff the rest of the food into their mouths. They clap wildly, chew fast. 

Lars orders another beer, and once served, he takes a swig from the bottle.

The band comes out. It's a better stage than the other one. There's an actual railing and steps for the members to use. NFL Guy marches out, followed by Gum Chewer and Bass Player. The crowd cheers as they go to their instruments.

Then comes Ritchie Blackmore.

With drumsticks.

Lars nearly drops his bottle. Ritchie doesn't have his guitar. No strap, no axe, nothing. Instead, Ritchie clutches a pair of ratty old drumsticks and hops behind the shitty drumkit.

A line-up change. NFL Guy on vocals and keyboard, Gum Chewer on bass, Bass Player on guitar, and Ritchie Blackmore as Ian Paice. 

_Holy shit._

Ritchie looks comfortable behind that kit, more comfortable than Lars has ever been behind his own. He can even see him beyond the large toms. 

Ritchie counts in, and the band plays a Led Zeppelin song.

He knows he's gawking. He can't help it. Ritchie's playing his heart out, bashing the shit out of his bongos and then some. 

Sweat mattes his face and shirt after two songs. He discards the white shirt, wipes his red face, runs his hands through his drenched hair, then launches into another song with even more intensity than before.

_I definitely can't stop gawking now._

Four more songs later, Lars is sure the kit can't handle the pounding Ritchie — _or should that be Ian_ — gives it. It's shaking under the force and power of Ritchie's thunderous drumming. But it lasts the entire thirty minute set, barely.

Lars watches Ritchie chat with his band mates and fix a few cymbals. He drains his beer as Ritchie grins at some joke Bass Player says. He can hear the rich Southern California accent from where he is.

"They're pretty good huh?"

Lars startles in his seat, turns to John and Brian. "What?"

"I said they're pretty good, yeah?" John repeats, grinning. "We know the bass player, Hugh. He's pretty awesome."

"Cool."

"Wanna go meet 'em before the next band starts?"

Lars hesitates around the 'yes' that almost forms on his lips. He swallows it down and eyes the band descending from the stage for a second.

Blonde-hair, bare-chested Ritchie captures his attention instantly. Wet hair mattes his face and chest. In the light, he can see the droplets trickle down to the stomach and the waistband of his ripped jeans.

Lars's breath quickens and his stomach tightens. The 'yes' dies.

He shakes his head. "Another time."

"You sure?" Brian asks.

"Yeah, it's fine." He turns away from Ritchie to John and Brian. "Don't worry."

They shrug and shake his hand, wish him goodnight and thanks for the ride. John questions him one more time, and Lars declines once more. 

He watches them walk off into the sea of people, right in the direction of the band. Bass Player beams at the sight of them, and they hug and laugh in greeting.

Lars motions over the bartender and waves his empty fourth beer bottle. The bartender takes it away and hands him a cold new Bud. 

He pays and drinks only a quarter down before giving up and putting it back on the bar table.

He stares at the bottle. His hands rest in his lap. 

Another Van Halen song plays over the PA. Again. 

Lars sighs, his back slumping.

_Can't get drunk,_ he thinks. _Driving and drinking's a stupid move, but I have to drive back home. I have no reason to get drunk right here and now anyway. I can go back to the house, get whatever alcohol is in the kitchen, head up to the room, break out some coke, do some lines, snort, drink, jack off, drink some more, maybe jack off again, then sleep it all away._

He slides his bottle a bit on the table. 

Wet residue gleams in the dim light.

Head on back home. Back home to the fake tits and the fake biceps, the fake teeth and the fake hair. 

Home to Sunset, home to Lone. 

Home to big hair and even bigger shoes. Head on back home with his so-called awesome cool great fuckin' Shelby GT.

Lars wraps his hand around the bottle's neck. His fingers chill against the glass. Condensation falls down the sides, slips over his pale skin, down the wrapper, down to the table, forms a puddle and adds to the residue.

_Fuck this._

The bartender slides another Bud across the table. 

A large hand catches it before it hits Lars'. 

Lars looks up the arm to the man there, and nearly falls backwards in shock at who it is.

Ritchie takes a long pull from the bottle, smiling around the edge. Or smirking. Lars can't really tell for sure, but the playful gleam in his blue eyes explains it all. 

He watches the Adam's apple bob, the naked chest gleam, the water drip off the bottle and Ritchie's fingers. And again, he can't help staring, gawking, gaping, whatever.

Ritchie removes the bottle from his lips with a loud pop. He smirks at Lars and regains a better grip of his guitar case.

"You followin' me around man?" The blue eyes twinkle.

Lars finally closes his mouth, dry from being open for so long. He covers up for the blush blossoming on his cheeks by taking another swig of Bud. When he finishes, he looks over Ritchie's shoulder and tilts the glass end out to the crowd.

"Got dragged here actually."

Ritchie follows Lars's line of sight, turns and looks at the corner of the bar. 

Brian and John talk animatedly to Bass Player and a bunch of other metalheads all sporting their band tees with pride. Sabbath, Priest, Maiden.

Ritchie smiles and takes another pull. He turns to Lars again, finishes and wipes the residue with the back of his hand.

The guitar case plops on the bar stool next to Lars. Ritchie fishes through his front pocket for his money and pays for the beer. His large hand slams the bills on the slick surface and slides it over to the bartender. 

For a brief second, his fingers brush the side of Lars's bicep.

Ritchie picks up his case, glances at Lars and tips the beer bottle in mock salute like he has done every encounter so far.

"See you tomorrow night," he says with such confidence it could be mistaken as arrogance, but Lars knows better.

Lars sits at the bar for full minute staring at the residue drying on the wood, and a bit of the bottom of his beer bottle. 

Rush changes into Prince's Dirty Mind over the PA, and everyone in the bar groans in disgust.

He gets up from the stool and exits the bar. He leaves his beer bottle unfinished on the table. Had anyone noticed, they would've seen a blush blossoming on already red cheeks in time with a wobbly, half-grinning smile.

 

 

When he returns home, Lars doesn't go to the liquor cabinet nor does he break out the coke. He goes to his room, slips under the covers and goes to sleep, dreams again in a disjointed fashion. It's a topsy-turvy psychadelic tripped-out Alice-in-Los-Angeles Wonderfuck of a Land dream with the colors mixed, places changing.

Somehow, the dream reminds him of a western he saw as a child with his dad Jorgen. He sees empty desert alongside the endless ocean. Torrents of sunlight rain down upon his pale skin, turning it red. Things start to bubble and boil, the ground, his face, the water. But Ritchie shows up and shields him with his case. Shields the world he stands in with a damn guitar case, smiling the whole time.

In the end, the setting and the plot don't matter. All that does is the prominent image of Ritchie Blackmore, his tanned shirtless chest, that playful smirk, and those blue eyes. The mysterious, pure Southern California Man With No Name with one hell of a voice. A Southern California Clint Eastwood who walked right into his life with a guitar case in his hand and the song of his childhood right on his lips. His mystery man with long blonde hair, white Flying V and white shoes.

Lars commits what he can to memory when he wakes the next morning with the most monster of all hangovers and a bitching Lone storming into his room. Even with his head pounding, and Lone scolding him for all the noise he made coming home last night, he still smiles.

 

During breakfast, Gunner says, "Do you want to do something today?" Lars says, "No thanks." Lone says, "You only do things with Dave, that lowlife." Lars says nothing.

After breakfast, Lars dresses quickly and bolts out of the house. He drives around LA aimlessly, listens to disco music for the hell of it. It's better than all that Van Halen-Lennon bullshit infesting the air waves.

At lunch, he stops off at an In-And-Out and buys a double-double cheeseburger with everything, a large fry, a large chocolate shake and a large water. He drives to Malibu, parks on a sea cliff, and turns off the radio. The waves become his entertainment then.

During lunch, he eats his fries by dipping them in the shake. He devours his burger in no time. He alternates between finishing the shake to chugging down his water. Blue waves splash and foam on the sandy Malibu beach. Salt and cool wind hit his face, fill his senses, mesh with the burger and fry smells.

After lunch, he drives around LA some more. He takes a pit stop at a gas station, picks up another water bottle. He pays for his gas, turns around and takes a step back.

Dave's grinning face presses into his own. Dave's arms snake around his waist. Dave's wet lips descend over his dry cheek.

"Hey there," Dave says, and he tightens his hold. Lars says, "Hey, I gotta get going," and scrambles out of the hold. Dave lets him go, and says, "More family stuff?" And Lars says, "Yeah, sorry," and distractedly kisses his cheek and leaves without looking up.

He goes to his car and hops in. He revs the engine and looks at Dave through the window of the station. His face falls at Dave's despondent, sad expression, one he hasn't seen before, ever, in the long years they've known each other. So he blows a kiss to him and waits for the ear-to-ear grin Dave beams at him.

Lars drives away fast. His stomach churns; his throat tightens; his eyes sting. Two stoplights later, he finally reaches a red light. He breaks slow, and once he makes a full stop, he sighs long and hard and rests his forehead onto the steering wheel.

Ritchie comes to mind, all blonde hair and blue eyes. Dave's hurt expression, all red hair and brown eyes, floats in soon after. Lars smashes his fist into the dashboard and hisses through his teeth.

_Shit. Just... shit._

 

Eight-thirty comes too fast for his liking. He barely makes it to the other side of Sunset and the shady Whip-whatever bar in time. He's thankful no one took his usual spot when he arrives, and he parks the car with a skid.

He calms down and takes his time leaving the car. When he heads to the entrance, Lars takes a second to look up at the sign to see what the name of the place is. There in red neon lettering is the name of the place: Whipping Boy. A name complete with a little animated caricature of a man whipping a small boy. 

_Only in LA._

He enters the bar and takes his now usual spot at the far end of the table. The bartender recognizes him, and without saying a word, produces a bottle of beer right in front of him. Lars pays and the bartender takes the money.

People stare at him like he's a freakshow still, like some sideshow found in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, like a tourist trap for those who've driven on the road too long and conartists know they'll need a rest. He can imagine the advertisements now: come one, come all, it's the return of the newcomer, ready to take on this world again. They're awed, shocked, surprised, amazed, confounded that this obvious rich boy would come back every night for the same local shitty band. It's a puzzle, a phenomena. Something that doesn't happen every day and messes up what is normal around these parts.

Lars ignores them and waits for the lights to dim and the music to begin. They don't matter; they never matter. They wouldn't understand to begin with. Only the music matters; only the music understands. Only Ritchie.

Twenty-so minutes later the show begins. There's no line-up change like at the Lagoon. It's a regular set, a regular gig. Cover tunes everyone knows, so everyone can sing along either soberly or drunkenly. 

Lars ignores the off-key pitches and the annoying slurs, and focuses on Ritchie standing proud in the spotlight.

Like clockwork, Ritchie starts the familiar notes of his childhood. What was on keyboard initially now plays from skilled, callused hands and a beautiful white guitar. 

Lars watches those fingers slide and pluck, coax the guitar to sing and cry and whine. He drifts his gaze up the picking hand, the moving forearm muscle, the shifting bicep, the sway of blonde hair, the tickle of sweat on his sideburn.

He expects to see those closed eyes lost in the music. 

He's frozen in place when blue eyes make direct contact with his green own.

He can't move his gaze away. He can't will his body to do anything. 

He keeps eye-contact with Ritchie as he finishes the intro and opens his mouth to sing.

But the blue eyes close. The mouth shuts slow. 

His callused hands switch gears, and he starts the riff to Smoke on the Water.

Lars snaps out of his stupor. Ritchie sings Gillian-style as the crowd bellows and shrieks in time with him. 

He idly sips his beer as Ritchie and the band plays on. It takes the entire song and half of the next one for his full-body tremor to stop.

By the time the band ends for the night, Lars is well on his way into his third beer. People swarm around him, demanding more beers, more food. He swallows down the rest of his second one and waits for the crowd to die down so he can order the next.

A few people leave, their glasses replenished. He takes the window of opportunity to glance for awhile at the stage. 

There he sees Bass Player, Gum Chewer and NFL Guy all conversing at a table, drinking beers of their own. No Ritchie.

He looks to the stage for a guitar case, or a mop of blonde hair. 

Nothing. 

He snaps his attention to each dark corner of the bar, every group he can see, looking for torn jeans or tanned skinned. 

He sees torn jeans, and a lot of tan skin, but not Ritchie. No Ritchie in sight.

Lars puts the empty bottle on the table. More people walk away with new beverages, but his want for another beer is gone. 

More and more people come, asking for a drink here a snack there. 

Some of the crowd around him disperses. He waits for the two people besides him to leave, and when they do, Lars stands up to go. He pats his pockets for his car keys.

"Hey barkeep.” 

Lars freezes.

That Southern California accent.

“Two Buds, please.”

A familiar guitar case slams onto the bar table.

Lars turns to his right and finds Ritchie Blackmore taking the open bar stool next to him with a big smile on his face. 

“For me and my friend here,” Ritchie says.

Slowly, Lars sits back down into his seat, eyes wide and mouth open. 

Ritchie keeps smiling at him. He doesn't look away, even when the bartender slides the two bottles in front of them. Ritchie just picks them both up and hands one over to Lars, the neck out in his direction.

A few seconds pass until Lars takes it in his trembling hand, a shy smile playing his lips. 

"Thanks man,” he says.

Ritchie grins and tilts his bottle to Lars. He recognizes the gesture, and Lars tilts his own. The bodies of two bottles clink together.

"James Hetfield," Ritchie says, and he takes a pull.

"Lars Ulrich," he says and takes his own pull. He puts the bottle between his legs on the stool's cushion, and smiles wider. _James. His name is James._ “Nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise.”

”I noticed you know Deep Purple."

"Hell yeah, I love them.” James turns full body to Lars.

He situates his body so he's mirroring James. "Me too."

"Good taste." James smirks as he looks down at Lars's shirt, then flips his blue eyes back to Lars's face. "So... what else do you like, besides Deep Purple and Black Sabbath?"

Lars laughs. He laughs and drinks again from his beer, laughs and drinks and laughs some more. James chuckles with him, and the people, the smell, the music, it all fades away, until nothing but blonde-haired Ritchie Blackmore and his white shoes, blonde-haired James Hetfield and his blue eyes remains. And Lars is more than fine with that.


	3. Part Three

They discuss music for a full hour. They start with Deep Purple, where Lars confesses his love of Blackmore, and the poster signed by him. James raves about Blackmore too. He asks Lars if he plays guitar. Lars divulges he is a drummer. Not once does Lars tell him that the poster is ripped, and that he hasn't picked up drums since he was twelve. 

Then their talk diverts to bands. What does Lars like, what does James like. Lars learns about bands he didn't know existed, band names that decorate James's guitar case with pride. Accept, Weapon, The Misfits. KISS, Motörhead, Scorpions. Cookin' bands with radical kicks that blow James's mind.

He feels like a student again as James shows off his musical knowledge. He listens in awe as James defends why he prefers Black Sabbath over Led Zeppelin any day of the week. He watches with rapt attention as James physically explains how he keeps his time while drumming. And he laughs heartily at James's dry jokes about the Sunset Boulevard "posers" he hates.

Lars doesn't say much. Not like he does anyway to begin with, but it's the first time in a long while that he's content being quiet. He asks questions here and there, drops a comment once or twice. But he stays silent and watches James, happy to observe rather than participate.

He notices the little things at first about James. The callused tanned hands, the wispy random curls in blond hair, the white-tooth grin. He catches scars and cuts here and there that look old — an accident-prone daredevil boy for sure. Then he notices the bigger things. The large booming laugh that captured his rapt attention. The thick, utterly Southern California baritone voice raw from singing, yet soft and gentle. Even shy.

And those blue eyes. Utterly disgusting bright blue eyes from which Lars has never seen in his life. He toys with the idea as James speaks what those eyes have seen. They shined pure energy, drawing him into their depths. And it burns inside Lars to know the story behind the blue eyes of this man, this blonde-haired Ritchie Blackmore.

"So where are you from?"

The question comes out of nowhere and startles Lars out of his reverie. He blushes a tad and takes a swig of his empty beer, feigning innocence.

"Um. Bel-Air."

James's eyebrows shoot up. "Ohh, a rich boy." He takes a long pull from his bottle, drains it out, and puts it back on the table. "You got an accent."

"I'm originally from Denmark."

"That explains it." He looks away from Lars to dig out his wallet and leaves through the pockets. "I live in Downey with my older brother David."

"Cool. I know the area." Lars takes out his money and pays for his bottle. "Do you go to school?"

"Graduated high school, never looked back." He pulls out a few ones and places them on the wet bar top. "You must be in college then, rich boy." He turns back to Lars. "UCLA? USC?"

"Berkeley."

"A good school. What's your major?"

"I'm undecided."

"Have any idea where you'll end up?"

"Not really."

"Well, you've got time. Four years and all."

Lars shrugs.

James glances down at his watch. "Shit, gotta run." He jerks up from the stool and snatches his guitar case. "Gotta pick up something from the store for my bro, else I won't hear the end of it."

Disappointment settles as Lars realizes this night with James is over. He quells the urge to ask James to stay a few more minutes, or to ask him for his number. Instead, he nods, and says, "Okay then."

James starts to turn away but stops short. He glances back at Lars still sitting at the bar and he gives him a genuine smile.

He sticks his hand out. "Hey, good chattin' with ya."

Lars manages his own smile in return. "You too."

They shake hands. 

Lars burns the image of his blue eyes in the dim light to his memory more than the band names James dropped.

They let go. James gets a better handle on his guitar case. "Take care, rich boy."

Lars watches James retreating form exit the bar. 

James is halfway through the door when he stops, turns and shouts, "Oh and no gig tomorrow! See you later!"

Lars turns away with an awkward, sheepish grin when the door closes behind James's back. 

People come all around him asking for drinks and food. Lars pays no attention to them.

Van Halen as usual plays over the PA system. People cheer and dance and sing along. And Lars discovers quite suddenly that he really doesn't give two shits about that band being played for the millionth time.

 

He wakes up the next morning to the sounds of Lone yelling at him downstairs. Something about the car, being disruptive, and taking privileges away. Lars gets up, locks the door to his bedroom, and ignores her until he's freshened up.

When Lars exits his bedroom and descends the stairs, he doesn't have a chance to think. Lone meets him halfway down and slaps his face.

“You idiot! Do you know what you did?"

"No."

She hisses, spit flying from her mouth. "You woke up your sisters last night from their much needed sleep! They arrived late for their call backs thanks to you!”

"Sorry."

Lone snorts and turns away. She descends the stairs. "You lost your right to park in the garage." At the base of the stairs, she turns around and glares at Lars. "Let's hope that you finally learn consideration for others when that precious car of yours gets scratched and dented."

"It's a gated community."

"Nothing can ever be completely guarded." Her eyes glint and it sickens Lars.

He watches Lone walk away from the stairs into the kitchen. He grips the stair-rail, knuckles white. His jaw sets firm, his lips flatten into a thin line.

The image of his former Blackmore poster flashes in his mind, with the small Post-it note and clean penmanship. 

_Do you still need this?_ it asked. 

His stomach churns.

He walks down the rest of the steps, one by one. He enters the kitchen and grabs a banana and an apple. The maid motions to his usual breakfast at the table. He looks at Lone and Gunner engrossed in their usual habits at the table, then the maid's guileless stare. He shakes his head and exits the kitchen.

When he enters the car, Lars wonders if Gunner will blame him for the dents and scratches on his car that Lone will deliver, or if he will just buy him a new one. He figures the latter as he reverses out of the driveway.

 

 

It's going to be one of those days. That's what Lars decides when he makes a quick stop at the liquor store on Vermont and Wilshire and runs into Dave.

"I'm stocking up for the party at my house tonight," Dave says. He brandishes a bag of chips to Lars's face. "Do you like Lays?"

"I hate Lays."

Dave drops the bag and picks up another. "Fritos?"

"No."

He throws that one back onto the rack and picks another. "Ruffles?"

Lars sighs. "Sure."

“Great.” He puts his extra arm around Lars and his mouth next to Lars's ear. "Wanna go have some pre-party fun with me?"

"Family." Lars grunts, and starts to shimmy out of Dave's hold.

Dave grips his shoulder tight. "Well tell Lone to fuck off."

"It's Gunner too."

"Tell him to fuck off too."

The hand tightens. Lars winces in pain. He looks up at Dave's cloudy expression.

"I _can’t,_ " Lars ays.

"Why not?"

"I told you—"

"Dammit—"

"— it's family shit."

"— fuck this."

Dave drops the bag of chips and leans in. Lars feels his lips and snaps his face away.

The liquor store owner makes direct eye-contact with him.

"Fuck's sake, not here." He hisses and shoves Dave's form away from him.

The hand doesn't leave his shoulder. Instead, it pulls him forward with a jerk, and he has no choice but to follow.

Lars glances one last time at the liquor store owner's confused gaze as Dave drags them outside and into the bathroom.

He's thrown up against the wall of the small bathroom. Dave slams the door behind him with his foot. The shaky mirror jitters from the force.

Dave's lips crush against his. Frantic hands slip underneath his shirt, find his nipples and pinch hard. Lars arches into the touch, his cock coming in contact with Dave's already hard own.

His shirt goes up and over his head without his say. Dave divests his own right after. Lars shudders at the feel of cool tile against his heated back. Dave presses him further into it, unbuttons his jeans, followed by his own.

Goosebumps rise on his skin. Tongues lick and curl and slide. His jeans slip over his ass. Dave sucks at his bottom lip, bites it, sucks it, alternates between the two and moans obnoxiously loud.

When Dave's hands wrap around his dick, Lars arches into the touch, and murmurs aloud against Dave's lips, "Fuck it."

Dave quick gasps mingle with his triumphant chuckles as Lars reciprocates in spades.

 

 

Lars hates the way Dave comes. It’s messy, uncontrollable and gets everywhere. 

He would’ve thought after years of being together Dave had taken care of that problem. But he still came like the teenager Lars still remembers him for. If he wouldn’t have sucked him off at the end, he’d have stains on his jeans and probably his hair, not just his chin and cheeks. 

Maybe Dave did know how messy he was. Probably why he took the shirts off. Or maybe he was just that horny.

_Whatever._

Lars quickly freshens up and kisses Dave quick. "Gotta go," he says. Dave frowns and says, "So no party tonight?" And Lars groans and snaps, "I told you, family shit," and he slaps his lips over Dave’s for a hot, wet, sloppy kiss that gives Dave another instant hard-on. "That should tie you over," he says, and he slips out of the bathroom, leaving a stunned Dave in his wake.

He re-enters the liquor store, grabs a pack of wintergreen gum and pays for it from the weary-eyed owner. He bites back a smart-ass comment, enters his car, pops in three strips, and hits the gas before Dave can catch him. It’s times like these that it pays having a really fast car. 

By noon Lars finishes the entire pack of gum. There isn’t much traffic when he takes the 10 again for the third time that day. It’s the open window of semi-heavy traffic that Santa Monica gets between two and three, just before the people leave work. 

He bops his head to Aerosmith on the radio. It’s not a song he particularly likes, but at least it isn’t the Van Halen. The window’s rolled down, bringing in the cool air from outside. He has the best air-conditioning unit ever, but he doesn’t feel like it. Los Angeles has good weather today, and he wants to use it.

The only time he’s completely and utterly alone is when he’s driving. The privacy and freedom his car gives him is the only sanctuary he has. It’s then he can think over things. His life, his family, his friends, himself. Usually he’s quiet. But when he’s stressed, he starts talking. Thankfully, there’s nothing to stress over. Fuck his family, forget Dave, he’s just going to listen to music and drive.

Lars relaxes himself, dismisses the thoughts of Dave and Lone and the shit that basically fucked-up his morning. He throws the empty soda can outside his window and leans his jaw onto his propped up hand. 

There’s nothing to do but drive anyway. No gig tonight. No reason to go anywhere. There was no way he was going to stay home or go out with Dave. So he drives aimless, taking the 405, the 60, the 1, and now, the 10. Santa Monica Freeway. 

Santa Monica is just a winding road at times of expensive cars and fake people. Sometimes he thinks it should be renamed to Sunset Boulevard Freeway, because that’s all he sees. The extension of the slum-shit dicks and the slut-dumb fucks. They just swarm this city now, infest it. Lars can’t remember a time when there weren’t these type of people around, but it feels like nowadays they come out of the depths of Hell to torture him. 

He eyes the Porche next to him, with the frilly blonde-haired pink-clad woman painting her nails on the dashboard, not even paying attention to the road. He sighs as he watches her lips sing along to Van Halen on the radio. He knows that song so well by now he doesn’t have to hear the damn tune. Prime example number one, right there, stage left. 

He lets the Porche pass him, doesn’t want to be near that walking accident and waits for five more cars to pass until he moves from the middle lane to the slow lane. A road sign comes up, and he glances at it to see what exits are next.

Glendale, 15 miles. Pasadena, 16 miles. Burbank, 17 miles. It doesn't matter where he decides to go. It's the freeways that determines where you end up. He could take the 2 or the 1, the 110 or the 101, the 5 or the...

Lars’s eyes widen at the city on the sign.

Downey, 18 miles. 

Highway 5. 

The 10 goes easily into the 5. Merge onto 5 North, go down and get off at the 19...

_No. Not going that direction._

_Nope._

The other places are closer. Glendale. Pasadena. Burbank. There's no reason to go to Downey. 

James's blue eyes pop in his purview. 

He glances back the sign and glimpses the word "Downey’ as the car moves forward in Santa Monica traffic. 

Aerosmith changes into Queen. 

The familiar opening riffs of Another One Bites The Dust filters through the car. 

Lars slumps back into his leather seat. 

He glances up at another sign coming up. 

Exit to Downey, it says. 

Exits. Choose one. Take one. Gotta take one. Must take one.

Highway 5 is close. 

He’s already in the slow lane.

It’s logical.

_Nope, not exiting. Downey’s just too far anyway._

_There are other places to begin with._

_Closer areas._

_Better areas._

Lars squeezes his fingers tight around the wheel.

 _Are you ready hey are you ready for this? Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?_ Freddie sings over the radio. The thumping bass beat does nothing to alleviate the sudden headache Lars has, and he lowers the volume. 

His nervous habit, rambling, talking nonstop— it only comes out when he's alone. Cliff's never heard him ramble. His stepsisters haven't nor has Gunner. But Lone did, when he was growing up. She hated it. She always hated it. She said it was impolite, immature, annoying, “grow up already, do I need to take you to a psychiatrist, you want to get on drugs, stop rambling or I’ll make it happen.” So he stopped. At twelve. He stopped a lot of things at twelve.

He stares up ahead, at the cars before him. 

He sees the Porsche from before, stopped dead in the middle of traffic. Probably still doing her nails. 

Lars drums his fingers to the very light beat of the song on the radio. 

The cars ahead move forward more, slower, and Lars moves with them. 

Speed starts to pick up. 

He glances up at the overhead sign and sees the word "Downey" float by. He looks back at the road and the sea of cars. 

His mind is going crazy. He can feel it. His lips are twitching. His fingers are twitching on the steering wheel. He's going to ramble and he's not going to be able to stop. 

_Don’t turn,_ he thinks. _And don’t ramble. Just don’t._

Highway 5’s exit comes closer. So does the 2 and the 101. 

_Don’t._

He puts both his hands on the steering wheel. He twitches his thumbs over the leather. The cars move more, and the exits come even closer.

Highway 5 comes closer.

_Shit._

Lars sucks in his bottom lip and bites it. He stops tapping his thumbs.

The cars in front come to abrupt stop, and Lars hits his breaks.

He takes in a long breath through his nose and holds it for five seconds.

_Fuck it._

"You’re not going to Downey,” he says. “You’re not going to take the exit to Highway 5. You’re not, Lars. You’re not. There’s no reason to fucking go."

The cars in front of him lose their red lights. Lars takes the foot off the break. 

He glances up at the sign ahead. 

Downey. Highway 5. Exit 3/4 mile.

"Fuck’s sake, if you wanna go a long distance, why Downey of all places? Again, nothing is there. You want a long distance, Lars? How about San Diego? Huntington Beach? Long Beach? Redondo? ... Death Valley?"

The 3/4 mile sign disappears from his vision and the 1/2 mile one comes up.

"Here’s an idea. Just stay in the slow lane. That’s a great plan. Stay in the slow lane. Go down the 10 all the way opposite of Santa Monica since you feel like a drive. A nice long drive, away from Downey. Yes. You can go all the way down the 10, which changes into the 60, and go all the way to Riverside. I mean, UC Riverside is there. You could go there, hang out, find a chick, fuck her, then leave. See how simple that is? Simple as fuck."

The 1/2 mile sign comes up. 

People begin to merge into the slow lane. 

Lars slows down a bit more.

"Seriously, don’t make the turn. Don’t fucking make the turn. Just stay in the slow lane. Go even slower if you want. Who gives a fuck that you’re in a fast expensive car? That’s fine that you wanna go in the slow lane. Free country and all. Who gives a shit? I mean, really. Who cares? You don’t. You shouldn’t. Right? Which is exactly why you shouldn’t care about Downey. There’s nothing there. Literally. Nothing. You’ve been there. You know the area. There is absolutely, positively nothing there for you to do. Okay? So just stay in the slow lane. Don’t make the turn. Don’t make the turn."

The 1/2 mile sign passes and the 1/4 mile sign comes up. 

The people speed up and take the exit to Highway 5 to Downey. 

"Don’t make the turn. Don’t make the turn. Don’t make the turn. Don’t make the turn. Do _not_ make that turn."

Lars follows the cars in front of him. 

"Don’t make the turn."

He speeds up like they do.

"Don’t make the turn."

He sees the exit sign for Highway 5.

He makes the turn.

He merges onto Highway 5.

He drives down the slow lane on Highway 5.

He stares at the cars ahead.

Rush changes into the Van Halen on the radio. It’s a song he knows. He doesn’t know the title after hearing it so many times, but he knows it. 

"Okay..."

He sees an exit come up, a random street name. 

“So, you made the turn." He fixes his grip the wheel, re-situates himself in his seat. "Totally cool. Honest mistake. Everyone makes them once in awhile. You just made one today. It’s fine. Blame the music. I mean, it’s the same goddamn song all the time. Yup. It’s the song’s fault."

The exit sign says 1/4th of a mile left. He slows down further. 

"There you go, here’s an exit. Just get off at this next exit. Get off at the exit, make a U-turn, take the exit back to 10 and for the fuck of it, go to Santa Monica. That’s a plan right there."

He comes up to the exit. The car in front of him goes off onto the ramp to the street.

"Okay, there it is."

He slows down a tad more.

He stares at the exit sign.

He sees the exit sign pass him.

He passes the exit.

He watches the ramp leave his vision.

"And there it goes."

He turns his attention back to the road. He slumps into his seat. The Van Halen song reaches it end. 

Lars reaches out and turns up the volume a bit more. Blondie comes on instead for some odd reason. 

He taps his thumbs alternatively on the steering wheel a few times. Before he knows it, another street exit passes. He does nothing about it.

Some cars pass him, honking at him. Some shake their fists. 

Lars loosens his grip on the steering wheel.

“You’re not stalking James. You are _not_ stalking."

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Another car honks at him. The driver flips him off.

"You’re just... going to Downey. Downey, California. Yes. You’re just going to Downey to... get a beer." He nods. "Yes. You’re going to Downey to get a beer. You’re going to get a beer, maybe score a chick or two... hell, maybe even get some weed. You haven’t had weed in awhile, have you Lars?"

He speeds up a bit more and moves to the middle lane. 

He sits further up in his seat and focuses more on the road.

"Yep, you’re going for booze, chicks and weed. The three food groups."

His fingers tap a frantic beat on the wheel, out of time with the song now on the radio. He sighs in frustration. It just had to be the damn Pina Colada song. Fucking great.

"Not stalking. Not stalking at all. Just going to a city. That isn’t really a city. It’s a town. Suburb. Ghetto. Yeah."

He passes another exit. 

"Weed. Booze. Chicks."

Cars zoom past him. 

" _Not_ stalking."

 

Lars arrives to the city of Downey in thirty-six minutes. He drives around the city of Downey for most of the afternoon, half trying to get himself to leave, and half keeping an eye out for blonde hair and white sneakers.

By the time the sun is ready to set, he's heard the Van Halen on the radio about twelve times, the Pina Colada song at least nine times, Funkytown three times, Olivia Newton-John once, and still he's found no trace of blonde hair or white sneakers.

He parks at the third gas station for the day. He turns off the engine, killing the radio.

He stares at the steering wheel for a few seconds, his hands still gripping it tight.

He slams his forehead onto the top of the leather wheel.

He groans loud and hard, hissing right at the end.

He grunts.

He clicks his tongue.

He lays on the steering wheel.

He slams his forehead again into the steering wheel.

He lets out a little whine.

He sits in silence.

Outside the man filling his car stares at Lars for a second, confused, then shakes his head and looks away.

Lars breaths in hard through his nose.

He exhales with a snort.

He releases his hold of the wheel. His arms fall limply to his sides.

He groans again.

"Fuck it, I'm stalking."

He lays immobile on the steering wheel.

The car on the opposite side of him revs the engine and pulls out of the station. Lars vaguely hears Dolly Parton as it retreats.

He breathes in and out through his nose again.

He slams his forehead into the steering wheel three times. He punctuates each slam with a low "fuck" under his breath.

He lays there for another minute. He grunts.

He gets out of the car and walks to the gas station.

 _Chips_ , he thinks. _Get chips. Chips, salsa, booze. A lot of booze. Then find some weed — there's definitely dealers in a place like this — head back home and jerk off. Forget the chicks, just get some porn and jerk off. Chips, booze, porn._ He nods. _Sounds like a good night._

Deja vu washes over him as he enters the station and eyes the man behind the desk. They square a quick nod. 

Lars makes a bee-line for the booze in the back and picks up a case of Coors. His eyes scan for another good pack, curses when he can find nothing else good.

Coors is enough for now. Nice and cheap. Once he leaves here, he could stop off at the liquor store on 6th and Alvarado, buy some Bacardi 151 — since he really feels like capping off his self-torture by drinking some gasoline — and whiskey for the fuck of it, hop back in the car, go to house and get drunk while watching porn.

Still. 

There's the matter of choosing the right chips.

Lars turns around and walks to the chip aisle. He eyes through the bags.

Lays, Ruffles, Doritos. 

_151, whiskey, and Doritos? No._

He looks down at the second level of chips and zips through the names. Tostidos, corn chips, more corn chips... 

_151, whiskey, pork rinds and porn. Perfect._

Lars peers closer at the bag. He looks back at the rack of pork rinds and frowns. _Shit, they have flavors. Great. Which flavor to get then?_

"I like the barbecue kind."

Lars startles at the low voice besides him, close to his ear. 

The bag falls to the floor and hops off his shoe.

He looks down and watches dumbly as a tanned, callused hand picks up the bag on the floor. 

He follows the hand and the bag until it is at level with his chest. 

His eyes trail up the long muscled hand, over the strong neck and jaw, then make straight contact with James's amused blue eyes and a small grin.

"You gonna get these?" he asks.

Lars grunts and takes the bag from him. He places it back on the rack and takes the barbecue pork rinds instead.

James's grin splits from ear to ear. "So what are you doing in a place like this, rich boy?"

He brings up his arms to show off the case and the bag of pork rinds. He passes by James and hopes to God his cheeks don't look that red.

He goes to the counter and pays for the items and the gas for his car. 

When he turns around, James is right there behind him with his own bag of barbecue pork rinds, still grinning.

The smart decision would be to get out, throw the things in the car, pump the gas and leave town. Instead he steps aside, watches James pay then turn to look at him.

"So Bel-Air don't carry pork rinds or Coors?"

Lars stumbles through his thoughts for the answer — _yeah but they suck,_ or _I felt like it_ , or even _Sunset doesn't know pork rinds_ — but he says nothing, shrugs and turns away.

Embarrassment stains his cheeks further pink as he goes to his car, opens the driver's door and throws the case and bag into the backseat. 

From the corner of his vision he sees James eating rinds and staring at him, probably laughing at just how pathetic and transparent he is. 

Lars keeps his attention down to the concrete, opens the gas door, grabs the nozzle, hits premium and fills his car.

Not even a word passed between the two of them, yet Lars knows full well that James knows why he showed up to Downey of all places. But at least he didn't seem pissed about it, or freaked out. What kind of reaction was worse though? Having James be mad, or having James be amused?

Lars sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He shouldn't have come. Stupidest decision ever. Now what would James think—

"Holy _shit_ , man!"

He looks up and across the front of his car, where he sees the odd sight of James crouched on the ground, his fingertips grazing the smooth hood. Blue eyes stare... no, they _oogle_ his car. He could just imagine the drool ready to seep out the side of James's mouth.

The nozzle clicks and jerks. Lars takes it out and places it back. James's hand drifts down from the hood. He turns the cap and closes the gas tank, then rounds the front of his car.

He stops once he sees the confusing sight of James run his hands up and down the white racing stripes and the words painted on the side of the car.

"Hey, what the fuck?"

James jerks his head to Lars, his blue eyes staring in awe of him like he was with the car.

"Dude," James breathes, like he's saying a sacred prayer. "It's an _Eleanor_."

Lars frowns. "A what?"

His jaw drops open. He stammers for a few seconds, unable to say anything coherent. He gestures to the words and the stripes, then to Lars, then the car, then Lars. He shakes his hands at Lars, desperate, shocked, bewildered.

Lars shrugs.

James's hands fall into his lap. He looks horrified, like Lars just said something sacrilegious, like if he preferred the Bee Gees over Black Sabbath. He stands up and gestures to the car again.

"Do you have _any idea_ how much this baby can purr?"

Lars shakes his head no.

James slaps a hand into his forehead. It slides down, pulling his skin. He laughs and asks, "Okay, just how long have you had this car?"

"About two years."

James laughs again. He pulls his hair and scratches his scalp, shaking his head. His hands fall to the side, perch on his hips.

"This is ridiculous.” James puts a hand on the hood. "I mean, I knew you had a Mustang, a good one at that." He glares at Lars. "But not _the_ Mustang Shelby GT500, an _Eleanor_ , which is basically my _dream car_."

"Really?"

"Shit yeah." James runs his hands over the roof. "The horsepower? _Fuck_. You can go zero to sixty in like... I dunno, fifteen seconds or less. The engine, the style, the power... it's every car junkie's dream, man."

James shakes his head and stops moving his hands, palms flat on the smooth top. Disappointment and sadness radiate from his hunched form as he stares at the hood.

Lars waits for the blue eyes to close. When they do, he walks around the car to James's side and taps his shoulder.

"Hey."

James opens his eyes again, and they come face to face with a pair of dangling car keys. He gasps and takes a step back.

His vision re-focuses, looks beyond the keys and sees Lars's green eyes and stoic face.

There's no pause, no preamble. Lars reaches out, grabs one of his hands, places the keys in his right palm and closes the fingers around them.

Lars watches James stare dumbly at his closed fist, then slowly look up at him, his jaw slightly ajar, his blue eyes wide and big. Surprise doesn't even cover how James appears.

"No gig tonight, right?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Cool." He walks forward, passes James and smiles as he goes by. "Make the baby purr then."

Lars hops into the passenger seat and buckles in. He grins at James's shaking form stumbling around the car, blue eyes big and face blanched. James composes himself a bit when he enters the car, but Lars knows better. The tremor in his hands is still there.

He says nothing when James fondles the leather steering wheel and the slick dashboard, nor does he say anything when James lets the engine run for a few moments.

Blue eyes glance at him. Lars smiles and nods. He notices James's hand still tremors when he puts the car into drive.

By the time they exit the gas station, Lars doesn't notice the tremor anymore. And he's sure James doesn't either. All that matters is the wind hitting their faces, the roar of the engine, and James's shouts of glee and excitement.

 

 

They drive around Downey for half an hour, but the confines of the city end up frustrating James. He takes the highway all the way past Victorville, where it is nothing but long roads and empty desert. And it is there in the desert that James roams free and acts like a madman the entire time.

He does twists and turns in the sand like Lars never thought of making himself ever. He cuts and twists without pause; he runs through the sandy rock without thought; he hugs the corners to the point where Lars is sure the car will tilt on its side. But he says nothing. He lets James do as he wishes, and holds on for dear life.

In a way, Lars finds this whole thing... fun. Driving at top speed, careless about where you're going, doing things without thought. Going hard, going fast. Laughing and shouting, punching the gas, weaving and swerving and turning. Maybe this is why James loves cars, especially this car, the Eleanor.

James is a natural behind the wheel. He's reckless, but he's smart too. He performs dumb moves with a clear, sound mind. James knows what he's doing to avoid an accident. But he's still having fun, bringing out the best the Shelby has to offer.

Five minutes after five, James turns the car back to Downey. Traffic will hit. The hour and so minute spent getting there will be doubled now. They're able to beat most of the traffic, but not all. Eight miles outside of Downey, they're locked in a sea of cars. What would take fifteen minutes to take will take a full half-hour. But that is the way of Los Angeles. With so many people in this area, time is slowed and doubled. It's ironic considering so many people just want to hit the gas and go. But things get in the way. Like traffic. Like people.

Lars doesn't care though. He watches the road and the people around him, watches James singing along to the country song he changed to on the radio. It's refreshing for a change to hear something he's not used to, something that isn't The Van Halen. Even hearing someone not bitching about LA traffic is a nice change.

Forty minutes later, they're in Downey. James parks the car into the first self-service car wash he finds. Lars looks confused as James unbuckles himself.

"What are you doing?"

James frowns. "I don't want this baby fucked up on sand."

"It's not like I can't afford a new car."

"Doesn't matter." James takes out his wallet and pulls out a few bills. "You let me drive your Eleanor. This is the least I can do."

He wants to tell James it doesn't matter, really, his step-dad bought this car out of the blue when he was sixteen and just got his license. He wants to tell James that Gunner can buy him a new one, that the car doesn't matter. But the solemn look in James's blue eyes renders him silent, and he lets James do as he wishes.

He stays in the car as James scrubs the car from head to toe, wiping away as much sand as possible. James even pops open the hood to give it an oil and break check. Like James is the one who owns the car, and Lars is along for the ride. He's half-tempted to just give the keys over to James permanently, but he's sure James won't take the gesture well. He seems like the upstanding, do-it-yourself kind of proud guy that does take kindly to handouts unless he can reciprocate back in some fashion.

 _A moral guy in a wasteland like Los Angeles._ Lars smiles. 

James re-enters the car and huffs. "I got most of the sand out, but I don't think it's all gone."

Lars shrugs.

James opens his mouth to protest, but he then shuts it and restarts the car.

They drive more through Downey in silence, save the country music on the radio, until six thirty finally rolls around. James stops off near a Waffle House and gives the keys back. Lars takes them.

"Gotta go, my brother needs me for shit," James explains, and Lars nods and smiles and says, "See you tomorrow," and James grins in return and says, "Yeah, definitely." He leaves the car and Lars takes his time going back into the driver's seat. He's startled to still see James staring at the car, and him, from a distance. He makes out the words "thanks again" and Lars grins as a response. Then James turns and walks away, and Lars drives off back home to Bel-Air.

He doesn't change the country channel on his radio until he's back on Sunset. He doesn't want this music associated with this area.

 

It's half past one in the afternoon when Lars wakes up the next day. He feels awake. Not groggy, not drugged out, not sluggish. He feels... refreshed, and it's disconcerting to say the least. He hasn't felt this way since he left Berkeley. Lars doesn't dwell on it long. He gets himself ready for the day then heads downstairs.

Gunner, Lone and his two sisters are there at the table, eating lunch. Gunner flips through his address book, mumbling here and there. His sisters mouth their lines as they eat their food. Lone looks up from spreadsheets of photos for the magazine she works for.

"You look presentable." Lone returns to her photos.

The words nearly throw Lars off. He wants to ask her why she said those words, but he stays quiet. It's the closest thing to a compliment he's ever going to get from his mom nowadays, so he takes it as is and says nothing about it.

Lars sits at the table. The maid serves him a light lunch of fruit, crackers, and cheese.

"Where did you park the car?" Gunner asks.

"The curb." He looks across the table at Lone, but she pays attention only to her spreadsheet.

"You're mother told me about you coming home late," Gunner continues. "I happen to agree with her. You must learn consideration for others."

"Okay."

Lone snorts but doesn't look up from her photos. Lars glances away, down to his plate, and cleans it fast.

By the time Lone peers up from her photos, Lars slams the front door behind him. She shares a look with Gunner, their eyes wide and mouths open. It's the second time he's done that.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. He drives here, drives there, eats In-And-Out, listens to Donna Summer and Bee Gees and Queen on the radio. Then night comes, and Lars heads to the Whipping Boy, right on time.

He's a bit later than usual. Someone has his normal spot at the bar. But the bartender recognizes him and points to an empty seat. He walks over and takes it. When he turns around, he's surprised to see a beer is presented to him, the same as usual. He grins and pays for the bottle, then turns to the stage to see the show.

Gum Chewer, NFL Guy and Bass Player file out and take their instruments. Then James comes out, sporting a white Ramones t-shirt. He looks out at the crowd, scanning the people, and Lars just knows he's looking for him. He can't help but grin with James when they finally make eye-contact.

Black Dogs launches into their first song of the night. The Van Halen cover once again. Aerosmith comes next. Lars finds himself moving to the music, uncaring that he's heard these songs a million times before on the radio. James's blue eyes maintain focus on him through the set. So he can definitely handle these overhyped songs.

The eyes don't waver during his song. They stay locked on him as James begins the swift-picked notes. Even when the regular jeers and hisses start just when James launches into the first line _sweet child in time you'll see the line_ Lars doesn't care. These people, they don't understand, and they never will. They're not supposed to.

He watches those blue eyes and blonde hair singing to him his song. The stinging sensation behind his eyes starts again, but he doesn't fight it. He allows it to happen. James finishes and grins at him, then launches into Smoke on the Water. Lars finds himself singing along to his most hated song but he doesn't stop himself. James is singing it. The song's tolerable.

When the show ends, Lars doesn't wait at the bar. He finishes his second beer, pays it off, and hops off the stool. He walks towards the band, hands in his jean pockets. James speaks to the three others, laughing and smiling. His blue eyes stray in his direction, widen and his smile turns into a full impish grin.

People swarm all around Lars, storming to the bar. Loud voices nearly drown out James's shout of "hello" from where he is at the stage. He watches James dismiss himself, say good night to the others, and walk over to him. There's a playful gleam in those blue eyes that captivates and intrigues Lars.

"Have a plan for tonight, huh?"

James nods and puts his free hand on Lars's shoulder, steering them towards the door. The loud, raucous voices lower considerably in volume when they finally exit the bar.

He's steered to a regular red-purplish Ford truck. Nothing particularly spectacular about it.

Lars looks up and sees James's pleading expression. It's in this gaze Lars already knows what the question is. He still asks it anyway.

"A drive?"

James nods and lets go of Lars's shoulder. "My car is definitely _not_ as nice as yours, but, y'know." He shrugs and grins sheepish. "It runs on all cylinders and shit." The grin falters slightly. "Unless you got shit to do tomorrow. It's cool."

He looks at the Ford truck again. It's a wear-and-tear kind of job, a bit of a clunker, but at least it wasn't Dave's car. Definitely not Dave's moldy cheese, thick weed, disgusting-looking car. Not a station wagon.

Hell, it's nothing like Dave's car. It's a truck to begin with. And it's not like he has anything to do tomorrow. The answer's simple. And it's the only one he has.

Lars walks forward and opens the door, hops in and closes it behind him. James grins at him from outside and rounds the truck. He throws the guitar case gently into the truck's bed. There's still a grin on his face when he enters the truck.

 

James can drive. He handles the truck and the radio with ease, changing tapes while maintain eye-contact on the road. Lars desperately wishes he could hand the keys of his Shelby over to James. He'd take care of that car better than Lars ever did. But that's now how James functions. That's not how James is.

So far it's been punk music. Clash, Sex Pistols, Black Flag, now the Ramones. Been feeling punk, that's what James says. Lars soaks up all the music with an eagerness he hasn't felt since he was a child in Denmark. So many different bands, so many different sounds. He can't believe what he's missed in the years since he left home.

The Ramones tape comes to a close. James stops at a red light and switches it up with a Thin Lizzy one. He fixes his tapes in the case placed between the two of them in the truck. Lars helps out, putting things back in order, none of the cases sticking out.

James glances at him and smiles. "Look through if you want." His eyes return back to the road when the light turns green.

Lars takes the invitation. He scans through the albums James owns. It's a shit ton of things to soak in. Sabbath's whole collection, Queen's whole collection. Thin Lizzy, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest. Even bands he's never heard of. The man has it all.

He fingers through the tapes and digs out a Sabbath tape he's never seen before. _Heaven & Hell._ He flips it over and reads the back. Released 1980? Shit. This year then.

He glances down at the other Sabbath titles there. Anything after _Sabbath Bloody Sabbath_ , Lars doesn't recognize. Just how much did he miss? He pushes back the dark thoughts waiting to rise up and puts the tape onto the dashboard next to the empty Thin Lizzy case there. But he stops short of moving back into his seat.

Behind the cases, up against the window, rests something Lars has never seen before. Out of curiosity he picks it up and brings it with him into his seat. The blue-and-white item has cushioned headphones. He presses a button and nearly jumps when a compartment opens up. Lars looks inside and sees two holders. Like for a cassette tape.

He frowns and holds up the contraption to James. "What's this?"

James stops his light singing to Phil Lynnot and turns to Lars. His horrified blue eyes appear like they did yesterday, but worse.

"You're kidding, right?"

Lars shakes his head no.

James's eyes flicker back to the road, still shocked. "It's a Walkman."

"A what?"

James reaches out and grabs the thing out of his hand and shakes it. "A Walkman. This thing, right here." At the red light, James stops and turns to Lars. He laughs at Lars's still confused expression. "Man, where have you been?! Everyone has a Walkman!"

He says nothing as James laughs and places the Walkman back on the dashboard. He stares ahead at the dark street of Downey, or Culver City. Or wherever James drove them. It doesn't matter.

The next Thin Lizzy song comes to a close. James takes it out and grabs its empty case.

"That's fucking radical, man. No idea what a Walkman is..." James takes the Sabbath case. "Shit, if I didn't have my Walkman, I'd go fuckin' crazy."

Lars doesn't react. They sit in silence while James drives. He hears the Sabbath case open up, and the tape slip into the stereo with a click.

The first track starts. James skips it. He skips the next two, and stops when the fourth track starts.

His heart isn't really into it, but the beat is too good to ignore. Heavy bass, strong riff, classic Sabbath.

His eyebrows shoot up when the vocals hit. _Sing me a song, you're a singer_ , comes the unfamiliar voice. It's a good voice, but still. _Do me no wrong, you're a bringer of evil._ That's not Ozzy. That's someone else. What the hell happened?

He turns to James who is singing along to the vocals. "Who's this?"

James doesn't break stride. "Sabbath." Then he continues singing.

"But this isn't Ozzy."

"No shit. Ozzy left, dude."

James states it so matter-of-factly, like it's utterly common knowledge that everyone and their mother knows it. Like he should know. He even said it like Lars was a four-year-old.

They reach another red light. James still sings along. Lars looks out the window and stares at the wet pavement and the streetlights. A homeless man crosses the street with his shopping cart. The light turns green and the truck moves again.

Towards the end of the song, James hits the rewind button, and repeats it. Lars sighs and slumps into his seat. Things move outside his window in a blur. He can't see much because of the night, but from what he can from streetlights is lost in motion.

Another red light. They stop.

Lars breathes on the window. Condensation forms.

The volume lowers.

"You really don't know." When he doesn't get an answer, James huffs. "How the hell do you not _know?_ Ozzy's solo album is a fucking hit, man. I mean, Crazy Train? Mr. Crowley?"

Lars stares.

"You don't know them?! What the fuck?"

Lars looks away.

"How can say you like Sabbath, but you don't know that Dio took over his _position_? Or that Ozzy has an a-fucking-mazing solo album out there? What kind of fan are you?"

He stares at his shoes.

The sound of the bumpy road. The faint trickle of music.

James clicks his tongue. He sounds disgusted.

Lars licks his lips, resists the urge to sigh, to explain. He can't explain. James wants to know why, and Lars has answers why, but if Lars does tell him, more questions will follow and he's doesn't want to answer them. Because he has no real answers to give.

He looks up and reflection in the rear-view mirror. He looks like shit. Too tired, too exhausted. Too fucking pale.

He closes his eyes.

The truck hits a big bump in the road.

Then Lars says, "I've only got the albums up to Sabbath Bloody Sabbath."

"Why?"

"Never got any albums past '75."

"How come?"

"Dunno."

James snarls, "Don't you go to Berkeley?"

Lars glances up and notices a billboard. Disappear Here. How fucking apropriate. "Yeah."

"Didn't you listen to music there?"

"Yeah."

"So how come you don't know shit about Walkmans or Dio or Ozzy leaving? Didn't you make friends there? Or listen to music there? Or catch on the radio what happened? I mean, the radio has news, DJ's talk about Ozzy, say it's his new band, they're bound to bring up he left Sabbath... I just don't get it. It makes no goddamn sense. And you can't be lying to me, because I can tell you're serious. You honestly don't know. So... what the fuck happened man?"

There's a desperation there that Lars can't understand. A need there Lars can't respond to. The underlying question is obvious — _do you trust me_ — and he can't answer. He doesn't know how.

The stoplight turns green. James drives again. The billboard moves away. The buildings pass in a colorful lit blur.

Lars shrugs.

James shifts gears. "Right."

The song continues in its low volume. Neither one make a move to raise it.

Lars raises a hand and makes a smiley face on the window condensation next to him. He stares at it for awhile, then wipes it away slowly with the palm of his hand.

He closes his eyes and presses his forehead into the window.

"I just–"

"Whatever."

The song continues. Lars hears a line. _The closer you get to the meaning, the sooner you'll know that you're dreaming._ Lars bites his bottom lip and huffs through his nose. _So it's on and on and on and on, oh it's on and on and on. Lars clenches his fist. It goes on and on and on. Heaven and Hell._

 

James drops Lars off halfway through the album. He doesn't say goodnight. He doesn't say anything. Neither does Lars.

He stands next to his Shelby as James drives off in his pick-up Ford truck. The jagged way he takes the turn out of the parking lot and onto the road tells Lars about his mental state more than words would.

Lars enters his car and sits in the driver's seat, staring at the leather steering wheel.

_I have to leave. I have to go. I have to get out of here._

Lars starts the car and drives away from the bar, from tonight, from James.

_Far away._

_Have to get away._

What possesses him to go visit Dave's apartment, Lars doesn't know for certain. He could've just stayed home, or gone to Malibu, or Santa Monica, or Redondo. Or wherever. He didn't have to go to Dave's. 

Maybe it's out of guilt, sure. Guilt that he's been shoving Dave aside to pursue James, his Ritchie. But it's not like he's actually cheated on him. Mentally didn't mean physically, right? Or maybe it did. He isn't sure. Maybe never. Whatever.

What made them exclusive to begin with? Because they lost their virginity to each other, that meant exclusivity? Did Dave take it that way? Did he himself did for that matter? Besides, Dave wouldn't be in the apartment so late. Probably was off at a party, drinking and smoking and doing coke as usual. Maybe fucking some guy, some chick. Maybe both. Fuck, why isn't he going to fuck a chick?

He walks into the apartment to see Dave taking lines, chopping up more powder on the mirror. The withdrawals he suffered in Berkeley come to mind as he watches Dave snort one line, rub his nose, then take another.

It's there and then that Lars realizes he hasn't had a withdrawal here. It's been two weeks, and even though he spent the first week doing coke with Dave, he didn't get a withdrawal. Because Dave started him off small again. Dave had been protecting him. Dave watched out for him. He knew how much Lars could take. Dave cares about his well being. Dave gives a damn. Dave doesn't ask about Sabbath and Dio and Ozzy. Dave doesn't question. Dave just gives him what he needs there and then. Like now.

Blonde hair and blue eyes register in his purview. 

Lars's stomach flips and churns.

Dave looks up from the mirror and wipes the white residue from his nose. He grins when he recognizes Lars standing in the middle of his hallway.

Lars wastes no time. "I finished the family shit early," he explains quickly. Then he's on his knees before Dave, staring right into surprised brown eyes.

Dave opens his mouth to speak, but Lars doesn't want to talk anymore. He pulls at his red curls and meets his open lips, slipping his tongue inside and moaning.

They tumble to the floor in a mess of limbs. Wet smacks, fabric scratches, hisses and moans are the only things Lars registers in his brain, through the cloudy haze of lust. Dave gasps out, "Fuck, fuck, shit," and Lars bites back the urge to shout.

He kisses Dave's red lips after he finishes cleaning them both up. Dave's arms are around his still naked back, and though Lars is ready to get up and go home, the urge to leave the warmth of Dave's hold isn't that great.

"That good?"

"Your family should do more shit often. You had so much pent up energy, heh." He trails a hand down Lars's side and stops at his hip. He hooks a thumb into the jean loop hole there and tugs. "Wish you could stay longer though."

"I can't do a party."

Dave shakes his head and his brown eyes look at Lars with meaning. "Then stay with me."

There's a lot of hidden meaning in that phrase, in that brown gaze. A need to feel, a want to hold. A desire to not let go, just not yet. The wish for more, and what that more entails is so open-ended it frightens Lars more than anything else.

But the hands on his back are warm, big. They pull Lars closer to Dave, to his bare torso and his scratchy chin. He pulls Lars on top of him. Their pelvises meet, hip to hip. Lars flanks his arms on either side of Dave's head and leans in.

His lips hover over Dave's own. Lars stares into his brown eyes for a few moments longer, and makes his decision.

"Just for tonight." He shuts his eyes when he presses his lips onto Dave's.

The hands around his back pull him even closer, crushing their chests together. Lars doesn't protest. He sinks onto Dave, into Dave's kiss, and forgets about the world, like usual, like they did when they were kids and had nothing but each other.

It's a familiarity that Lars needs badly after a night like tonight, something Lars needs to center himself, and he's sure Dave needs this too. So he stays quiet and stays all night, buries himself into the past and into Dave and forgets about blue eyes just for a little while.

The next day he stays with Dave for most of it. They fall into a routine that Lars can't believe he forgot about. Or maybe they never had a routine, and this should be one now. He can't remember.

He's at ease in Dave's company as they eat breakfast and discuss old childhood memories, like pulling pranks on the bullies during fifth grade, and the teachers during middle school. They mock the absurdity in the b-rated horror movies Dave owns while sharing a bowl of popcorn, then later enjoy the explosions and intensity of Dave's all-time favorite action flicks. At lunch they forgo the food for time in Dave's bed. But when they finish, their stomachs roar in protest, and they laugh all the way into the kitchen, finally making something to eat.

By the afternoon, Dave has to go host a party, and Lars has to go do "family shit." Neither particularly wants to leave each other's company. Lars hasn't had a moment like this in forever with Dave. Maybe he hasn't ever. He can't recall anything recent. His earlier memories are a bit vague. Maybe then. Dave probably knew them better than he did.

They procrastinate as long as they can, just shooting the shit. But Dave sees the time, and realizes he can't stay any longer. He spends the next five minutes coaxing Lars to come with him, but Lars insists he can't, that he has to go as well. To Lars's surprise, Dave gives up, and accepts it.

"Will I see you tonight," Dave asks, and Lars says, "Probably not, but I'll try," and he kisses Dave for a long time until he pushes him away. Dave smiles and waves goodbye while Lars skips down the stairs and hops in his car.

As he drives away to the Whipping Boy, Lars feels like the scum of the earth. He feels like shit. Guilt eats his insides away; self-hate bleeds through his veins. He doesn't know why he is doing this to Dave, or even bothering with James. There's nothing there with James. There's everything with Dave.

James doesn't know him. Dave does. Dave understands him. James doesn't get it. Dave does. Dave knows where he comes from. Dave gets it. James can't. James won't.

Blue eyes come to mind, followed by hazel eyes. Lars punches the steering wheel and hits the gas.

He has to end this. For Dave's sake. For his.

 

Black Dogs finishes when Lars enters the Whipping Boy. He doesn't take a spot at the bar, nor does he order a beer. He stays in the far back, covered in the shadows. The crowd cheers as the band leaves the stage for the night. Lars doesn't clap with them. He stays cross-armed.

He makes out James's blonde-haired form wave goodnight to his bandmates with no finesse like beforehand. Blue eyes scan the crowd, probably for him, but Lars doesn't care. When they don't find what they are looking for, they go to the bar. James approaches the table and asks for a beer.

For a second, he thinks James will just walk right past him, beer in one hand and the guitar case in the other. But the blue eyes find him easily at the bar. They widen in recognition but dim when last night comes to mind.

Lars stays cross-armed and immobile against the wall as James weaves through the crowd and comes his way. James tilts the beer bottle to Lars, a familiar gesture. He shakes his head no.

James bends down and leaves the bottle on the floor. He stands back up and stares at Lars, awkward, shy. Like Lars hasn't seen since the first time he saw James on stage.

"You weren't there."

"I had a family thing," Lars says.

James nods. Lars can tell James sees through the smoke screen like Dave can't. 

An Eagles tune plays over the PA system. 

Blue eyes glance away away down to the floor.

"I... didn't play the song."

Neither move away from each other. Neither say anything.

People come in and out, walk around them, pass them. 

Some stare, some don't bother looking. Some glance, then pass by, ignoring them.

Lars unravels his arms and hooks his thumbs into his jean pockets.

"I thought you were pissed at me."

Blue eyes snap back up and meet green eyes. James shrugs. "That was yesterday."

He nods.

They continue to look at each other. James leans from one leg onto the other. Lars drums his fingers on the outside of his jean pockets.

"Wanna go somewhere tomorrow?" James says.

Lars's fingers stop drumming. "I might be..."

His green gaze falters down to the ground. Hazel eyes appear for a split second. But they're gone right after.

When he looks back up, he sees James's blue eyes staring at him the same way Dave did yesterday, with the desire to not let go, just not yet. Except they don't stare at him with the need to feel nor the want to hold. Instead, there is the need to protect, the want to guide.

There is a wish for more, and what that more entails is as open-ended as Dave's. But it doesn't frighten him. It doesn't scare him. It makes Lars want to take the plunge, go into the depths he doesn't do, and do it. If it doesn't work out, it's okay. He does have Dave.

Lars sighs. "What time?"

James smiles. "Noon sound good?"

"Sure."

"I'll pick you up?"

He shrugs. Lars digs through his pockets for a piece of paper and comes up with a gum wrapper.

James goes to the bar and asks for a pen or pencil. The bartender hands him over a pen and he gives it to Lars.

Lars scribbles down his address and hands it over to James. He watches James hand the pen back to the bartender, saying thanks, then reading the address on the paper.

"Never been to Bel-Air..." James looks up from the paper with a cheeky grin. "You think my truck will be so totally out of place that the Sunset Fashion Police will go after me?"

Lars quirks a small smile. "Probably."

"Awesome." James folds the paper and puts it in his back pocket. He gets a better grip on his guitar case and nods to Lars. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He nods in return and watches James leave the bar until the door closes behind him. Once it does, Lars sighs and runs a hand over his face, through his hair, and back down again.

Hazel eyes. Blue eyes.

_Shit._

He bends down, picks up James's untouched beer bottle and downs it halfway. Lars stands in the darkness with the bottle, listening to Genesis on the PA now. He waits for the song to finish, then downs the last of the beer. He puts the empty bottle back on the ground where James left it and exits the bar.


	4. Part Four

_He's dreaming. He knows he's dreaming because the last thing he did was lay his head down on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. That and he doesn't remember having Pink Floyd playing in the background._

_Spicy chili wafts from the nearby room. Lars follows the scent. Hunger sucker-punches him as he enters the kitchen. When he sees who is there, and what exactly is going on — 13-year-old Dave over a pot of beans and chili at the gritty stove — Lars knows it's not a dream, but a memory._

_There's the stereo playing Shine On You Crazy Diamond. Besides it is the cassette case of the burning man shaking hands with the other man. He looks up and surveys the room like he remembers: the half-open window bringing in light autumn, the picture of Dave's family tilted on the runny wall, the wobbly table with the Bible stuck underneath the rear left leg._

_He remembers this. It's the first time he came to Dave's house. They had been friends since Lars started public school in the fall of '74 at eleven years old, away from Westside and further across towards Downtown LA—one of his last forms of protest against Lone, before she won and he gave up everything. It was a long commute from Bel-Air, but Lars wanted it, he wanted it badly, and Lars got what he wanted after enough protesting. One of the last times that happened._

_This was a good memory. The fact that he lived far from Westside and Lone ensuring Lars was picked up by the nanny the exact moment school were the two reasons why he never got to hang out with Dave for almost a full year, until now. In the spring of 1975. All because they had to work on a science project together._

_Now he could be with Dave. Understand Dave. Dave, who never made fun of his accent since day one. Dave, who cursed and road a cool bike and told cool stories and warded off the bullies who called him names because of the way he looked. Dave, who lived in Mid-Wilshire in a small motor home with his dogs and cats and weird looking mom. Lone hated everything Dave and Lars loved it._

_As if on cue, the old familiar butterflies begin to flutter in Lars's stomach, sucker-punching him into sudden nervousness, as eleven-year-old Dave turned around from the stove and looked right at him._

_"Like it?" Dave asks, grinning beneath a mop of sponge-like red curls._

_”Like what?”_

_"The song. It's kick ass."_

_"I dig it." Shyness seeps through his young, accented, eleven-year-old voice._

_Dave blows some curls away. "Awesome, man." Hazel eyes sparkle and Lars's tummy flips._

_Dave turns back to the stove. He serves the chili and beans in two bowls and goes to the table. Lars sits across from him._

_They eat and chat about their day at school. They discuss what to do to the bully Frank tomorrow, since he's been a dick lately with the younger kids. They laugh and eat, talk about the song and how trippy-cool it is, and what else Pink Floyd has to offer._

_Their science project and the rest of their homework lays to the wayside as they walk into Dave's room. Music becomes the dominant topic for the rest of the evening. Lars waxes lyrical about Deep Purple. Dave rolls his eyes, but indulges in the fanatical rants._

_The maid picks Lars up at six at the same time Dave's mom comes home from work. When Lars leaves, he swears to do this again, no matter what his mom says. He commits Dave's hazel eyes to memory and smiles._

_Dave. His Dave._

 

Lars wakes up from his dream, guilt already eating away at his insides. The dream, as sweet and innocent as it was, merely served to remind him of what was there, and what was lost.

Dave's hazel eyes enter his mind. James's blue eyes float over soon after. He rubs at his face and sighs into his palms.

The maid enters his room. Lars doesn't look up.

"There's someone outside for you," she says. "His name is James."

Lars takes away one hand from his face to wave her away. "Tell him I'll be down in ten."

She leaves. Lars drops his hands into his lap. He stares at his sheets for a good minute.

In the bathroom he washes away the residue wet marks on his cheeks. Hopefully his eyes won't be so red when he goes downstairs. Presentable. He has to be presentable.

Lone looks up from the photos at the kitchen table when Lars descends the stairs a few minutes later. She stares at Lars's tied-back, brushed hair and total black outfit: t-shirt, jeans, boots.

She frowns. "Out _again?_ "

Lars nods.

She sighs and returns to her photos. "Tell Dave I said hi."

Lars doesn't correct her. He nods and leaves the house. 

 

 

James sports a purple Aerosmith tee, ripped pale blue jeans, and white sneakers, one hand on the wheel and the other in his lap. He has an impish grin on his face, which could spell trouble, but Lars knows by now that's not how James functions.

"Nice house."

Lars shrugs. He buckles himself in.

He turns back to James and sees a black blindfold in his free hand.

Green eyes raise from the blindfold up to James's pleading blue eyes and white-tooth grin.

"We're going somewhere I don't want you to know." He pushes his hand closer to Lars. "Put it on?"

Questions burn his mind, mingle and mesh all together. _Wait, how the fuck, what the fuck, why the fuck, who the fuck are you to do this to me, where the fuck are we going, fucking hell, fucking shit, fuck fuck fuck fuck—_

He eats them all with the simple thought of _fuck it_ and takes the blindfold from James's strong, tanned hand.

He leans into the corner of the seat and the door, legs stretched out before him. James starts the truck, turns on the radio and stops the familiar disco tune from starting by putting in a cassette tape.

Lars's head shoots up when he hears the familiar opening riff of Highway Star. James's hand gently stops him from removing the blindfold.

"Figured you'd like this." James pushes him on his shoulder back towards the corner. Lars relaxes as Highway Star begins. James chuckles. "Since we're going on a long ass drive, we might as well listen to shit we both agree on, right?"

He can't find the will to speak as Ian Gillian starts singing. All he does is lightly sing along, badly air drumming with Ian Pace in the background. James chuckles besides him and takes the truck out of park. Soon his voice joins Lars as they drive to the unknown destination.

They go through all of _Machine Head_ , before heading back to the first three albums. When Speed King starts up on Lars's favorite album, _In Rock_ , he feels everything start to fade, and he nods off into a dreamless sleep.

He comes to as the truck takes a turn. He feels the speed slow down considerably, then come to a soft stop, then move forward again. Another turn is taken, with a small stop, then more moving forward. There's light music playing, some country singer Lars can't name. But the man has a good voice, so it's more than tolerable.

Must've gone off a ramp, he determines. Now that they are no longer on a highway, they must be close to wherever James wanted.

"Have a good nap?" 

Lars nods. "We almost there?"

"Yep. Not long now."

He nods again and leans back into his corner. His head rolls back onto the window. A bit of the light peeks through his blindfold, but Lars doesn't want to ruin the surprise after all this time.

The nameless light country music lulls him into a gentle stupor. Never would he have figured to actually tolerate this kind of music, but it's a welcome change he appreciates. Whoever sings this song has a voice of the ages, someone who has seen hell and lived to tell the tell. A voice you can't ignore, whether or not you like country. He has to ask James the man's name later, maybe a copy of the tape.

He nods off again to the light acoustic guitar and James's gravely voice singing along to the weathered man's. A lyric or two comes by — _I've always been different with one foot over the line_ — something something somethiiiing — _one step ahead or behind..._

 

 

_Fourteen-year-old Dave sprints into the bedroom and slams the door behind him. He throws the plastic bag into the floor, turns, locks the door, skids on the carpet, flops onto his ass and leans into Lars._

_"I did it! I got it!"_

_Lars looks up from the many music magazines Dave has. "Yeah?"_

_Next thing that floods his vision is a bag of weed. "Fuck yeah!" Dave puts it back to the floor. "You got the papers?"_

_Red curls move up and down over Dave's panting lips. His chest heaves from the effort of running ten blocks with his precious cargo. Hazel eyes look at Lars expectantly, big and huge and nervous. Lars's breath catches._

_He smiles and produces the papers from behind his magazine. Dave grins from ear-to-ear._

_Pink Floyd plays in the background. Welcome to the Machine. The perfect music to mellow out to. But it's all they've been listening to lately. The same album for the past couple of months, and Lars is growing tired of it._

_But Dave promises he will get more. He will get more, as long as Lars does things with him. So Lars doesn't bitch about it. Dave never breaks his promises._

_They pass their first joint together. Lars feels funny around the second joint. Experiments. Dave rolls up a third one, and Lars is fascinated by the way his tongue slides over the white paper. Dave calls these experiments._

_By the end of the night, they discover they're both mellow stoners, Lars a bit more on the philosophical side. There's enough weed left to do some more in the future. More experiments, Dave says. Need to do more._

 

 

Lars comes to as gentle, warm hands remove the blindfold from his head. He blinks a few times to catch his bearings, stretches out his arms and legs, lets out a few yawns. The truck's engine crackles in the silence. They must've just parked.

He scratches the back of his neck as his vision focuses. He stares ahead with clarity.

He blinks a few times at the sight of a beautiful sunset, a roaring ocean, sandy beach, various people, and a long boardwalk. A boardwalk that isn't Santa Monica's by far.

His eyes drift to the sign a few feet in front of the boardwalk. He squints and reads: Pismo Beach.

He snaps his head to James, shocked and confused. "Pismo?" He gestures out to the beach and turns to stare at it. His hand falls to his lap and he shakes his head. "Fuck James, we're far out of SoCal now."

"Exactly."

Lars turns and meets calm, serious blue eyes. James's purple tee looks reddish-violet in the waning sunlight.

He sighs. "It's gonna be a trek back."

"I'll manage."

"What if we don't get to your gig tonight on time?"

"We'll just start late then. Not a big deal."

"What if we miss it?"

"Like I said... not a big deal."

Lars nods.

The ocean churns, roars. People's voices from the beach waft into the truck. The engine's clicks cease to be. Lars fights the urge to fidget under James's blue gaze.

"What now?"

A small smile flutters onto James's lips. He reaches behind his seat. Lars turns to follow what's back there.

A red sheet he hadn't notice before covers the entire backseat. James's large hand pulls the sheet off it and reveals a whole seat filled with food, cases of root beer, and stacks of cassette tapes.

Lars stares at the goodies for a second, then back at James and James's shit-eating grin.

"We're gonna sit here, watch the waves, drink some soda, eat some food, listen to music, and talk." James lets go of the sheet, grabs a soda can and cracks it open. "That's what we're gonna do."

James shoves the can into his hands. Lars glances down at it, then places it in the cup holder. He glances back up at James.

He watches James pick it up and push it into his chest.

He pushes it back a little ways into James's chest.

James sighs and pushes it forwards.

Lars looks back down at it. The soda fizzes and pops. He can make out some of the brown liquid. The sunlight casts a heavy shadow on the inside of the silver rim.

He glances back up to James's face. His smile is gone.

"You need this." James's chiseled zit-covered visage softens a tad. “And maybe I do too."

James and Lars stare at each other. The soda continues to pop and fizz between them.

Lars turns away from James's deep blue stare and focuses on the wind and the waves, the people and the Pacific, the sand and salt. He wishes there was music playing.

More cracks and pops from the soda can. They mix with the splashes and the laughs on the beach. James places the can in the cup holder, shifts in the driver's seat besides him.

"What's Denmark like?" James asks.

The waves crash. Children bound through the ocean, bouncing up and down, laughing and screaming. Couples kiss, hold hands, giggle.

"What was your childhood like?"

Seagulls caw over them, swoop down to the ground and land in the sand. Water churns, foams.

"Why do you like Deep Purple?"

The sun sets, colors the sky in pink and orange hues. Silhouettes of people fishing on the dock block his view.

"Why did your family move to Bel-Air?"

Lars scratches the side of his elbow. His nose picks up the thick salt air and James's cologne.

"You're not gonna answer me."

He answers in a shrug.

Warmth lands on his wrist. James's hand. Strong fingers wrap around and jerk to the driver's side. "Look at me." He tugs harder, twice. "Lars, look at me."

Lars turns his head and stares at James. The grip on his wrist leaves, remnants of warmth cooling in the sea air.

James sighs. He looks sad, frustrated, somehow a tad understanding. "Stop it. Okay?"

"Stop what?"

"Avoiding."

"I'm not avoiding."

"I know what avoiding is. I've been doing it my whole life. I know the signs better than anyone else, and I see it as plain as day right now."

Lars shrugs and turns back to the ocean view.

"See? That's what I mean." James grabs his wrist again. Warmth returns. "Do you really not give a shit?"

Lars shrugs again.

The grip tightens. "Bullshit."

The sun disappears beneath the waves in the distance. Pink and orange hues mix with the growing purple and black ones in the cloudless sky.

Children scramble from the cold waves into the warm arms of their parents. Lars watches the moms and dads bundle them up and kiss their foreheads and cheeks with utter tenderness.

The familiar sting guts him, pains his vision, twists his stomach. He shakes, he knows he's shaking, and fucking hell son of a bitch he can't fucking stop it.

James's grip disappears, and so does the warmth. But it returns on his cool face, callused fingertips on his skin. Under his chin, on his cheek. They tilt his face to James, and he lets it happen.

Blue eyes stand out in the fading orange sunlight. The waning rays add color to James's tanned skin. Lars can't figure out what emotion James sports. It's not sad, or disappointed, or bored. He can't figure it out.

The fingers on his face slide off. James drifts his hand down to the soda can, picks it up from the cup holder, and presents it to Lars again. He smiles shy, painfully shy, and Lars feels the sting multiply, triplefold, whatever it does. It intensifies and it hurts.

Lars reaches out and takes the soda can, brushing his fingertips against James's. He glances down at them, then to James's shy, chapped-lip smile.

"Go on." 

James pushes the can a bit more forward, lets it go. 

"Go for it Lars."

He drifts his vision back to the open can. The liquid pops and fizzes inside, all in time with the ocean's churn and roar outside.

Lars tilts the can to his lips.

 

They each have two cans of root beer along with some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. James made some with grape and some with strawberry, since he didn't know what kind Lars liked. Lars ends up eating both types without fanfare.

They share a look when they finish. James smiles and goes into the backseat to dig out a few cassette tapes. He presents them to Lars.

Four tapes, four albums, four names he knows. Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Motorhead, Thin Lizzy. Sad enough, he hasn't heard any of their music a lot. There's no way he's about to tell James that.

He points to the Judas Priest album for the hell of it. Stained Class. James grins and puts the tape in.

The first track comes on. Lars is floored by the drum intro. He moves his head to the beat. James lowers the volume when the vocals come in.

Another root beer comes Lars's way. He takes the can and opens it. Pops and fizzes sound louder than the song in the car and the ocean outside.

"So when did you come to the States?" James starts.

"1973."

"How come?"

Lars lifts a finger and runs it around the can's rim. "My step-dad has a job in LA as a CEO to a film studio. I don't know which one."

"And your mom?"

"She's a professional photographer for some magazine."

"Any siblings?"

"Two sisters. They're my step-dad's. Gunner is his name. Lone is my mom."

James takes a sip. “Where's your real dad?"

"Denmark."

"How come?"

Lars stops running his finger around the rim. He wants nothing more than to crush the can and throw it at James.

He's never felt so uncomfortable his entire life. All these questions prodding into his past. Why did James give a shit? _Why?_

And why the fuck wasn't he fighting this? Why didn't he tell James to go to hell and left the truck and found a way back to Bel-Air?

He looks up and sees James's patient expression, the blue eyes open and focused. Waiting for an answer.

The next song starts. 

Lars sighs and caves in.

"My parents used to be together. Things were good, I guess. Then my mom wanted a divorce. She got tired of my da... d, and my dad didn't want to hold her back. Torben, my dad, was too much of a good person to make my mom unhappy, so he signed the divorce papers and she immediately got married to Gunner."

James nods. He takes a few generous gulps from his can. "Do you think she was cheating on your dad?"

Lars shrugs.

James's blue eyes narrow. Not angry, just annoyed. "Okay... what else happened?"

"Mom got custody of me. Don't know how. Don't remember really. Torben was a good father. Maybe it's because he had such an unconventional, bohemian lifestyle. Torben's a tennis player, a saxophonist, a painter, a sculptor… I dunno, maybe the court thought he couldn't give me the attention mom could." He takes a small sip of root beer. "So, I came to LA when I was nine. It took me a year to get used to the language finally. School helped, but I hated it. I went to this really private, prestigious school in the area, and I hated every minute of it.”

“Did you change schools?”

“Yeah. Gunner was able to pull a few strings, and I joined a public school in the Mid-Wilshire area.”

“Pretty far.”

“It wasn’t that bad. I could deal with it because…” He looked down at the can. “That's where I met Dave."

"Your best friend?"

Lars winces. "Sorta."

"Sorta?"

Light gleams off the can's edge. He dips his finger into the can's edge, where residue root beer pools. He pokes at it, moves it around.

"He's, um..." He swirls his finger around slow. "We're..." He stops at the point where he started. "Together."

James burps. "I see."

Lars removes his finger. He closes his eyes. "Does that—“

"It doesn't."

Lars looks up. Green eyes meet accepting blue ones.

James smiles. "Go on. What else happened?"

He tries to find something else to talk about, things to mention, but every road leads to his relationship with him and Dave. After the dreams he's had today, and the encounter yesterday, he's not sure he's ready to talk about that. But he has the sinking feeling, with just how vulnerable he is with that subject, it will come up, whether he likes it or not.

It's not like he can think of anything else when all he can think of is the fact that he just told someone he was heavily involved with a guy. And that it wasn’t his mother, or Gunner, or someone else in his life he told first. That someone he told, for the first time, was James of all people. James.

“I-I don't know."

"Okay then, how about why you don't know anything past '75?"

Something stings his insides at the straight-forward question. 

He looks away, downs the rest of the can and crushes it into his hand. 

_Might as well go for it all,_ he thinks, _because why not. James wants it all. He's gonna get it all. Ask and ye shall receive, that's how the saying goes, right? Anything really get over that James knows I’m with Dave… somewhat._

"Mom forbade music in the house... all music. Partially it's because she wouldn't be reminded of Torben, and partially so I could focus on schoolwork. We fought up and down about it, but when I turned twelve, I gave in."

"Why twelve?"

"I..." The word 'dunno' is right on the tip of his tongue, but when he looks at James's blue eyes, it slips away. "I guess..."

Twelve. Twelve-year-old Lars, at home. He can remember his mother, younger and still full of the fire and anger she is with today. He can remember the day he gave up, the day he started nodding and saying 'okay.'

He can remember his thoughts. He can remember his feelings. The day is clear to him. 

Then the memory hits him like a brick. 

_Broken vinyls litter his bedroom floor. His kit in the corner fell over, the snare and some of the cymbals scattered all around. The small jukebox Torben let him have lay snapped in pieces at his feet._

_One more rip, and Lars watches Lone tear up the last picture he has of his father—then she throws the scrapbook far outside his bedroom door, where it lands with a thud against a wall. The same scrapbook she made for Lars on his seventh birthday, two years before they left home._

_She whips around and glares right at Lars._

_“You’ve pushed me long enough,” she says._

_She comes closer._

_Lone says, “I let you go to public school. I let you have your stupid music. I let you do everything you wanted, but no more.”_

_She kicks a piece of vinyl away._

_“You’re going back to private school. You’re going to get an education. You’re going to become a college graduate at a fine university.”_

_She loomed over him._

_“Because you are NOT going to end up like your worthless father. Do you hear me, Lars?”_

_His hands turn into fists at his sides._

_She shouted, “Do you hear me?!”_

_He snarled, “Fuck you—!“_

_The blow to the side of his face came too fast, too sudden, and he ended up on his side, laying on a pile of vinyl and jukebox pieces._

_He lay on his side, staring ahead, across the carpet, right at a torn picture of his father’s face, as Lone shouts and hurls insults and drives home her point._

_No more music. Never listening to the radio again, ever. No drums. Nothing but school. School only. Books only. Have to be the best. Have to study. Not defy her anymore._

_At the end, she says, “But you can keep Dave.” Her feet turn away. “For now.”_

_He doesn’t get up when she head to the door._

_With a hand on the knob, she says, “I’m sorry, Lars. But I’m only doing what’s right for you.”_

_Then it shuts._

_Lars stares. And stares._

_He doesn’t get up from the floor for a long, long time._

A soft hand on his forearm him out of the memory.

He refocuses and finds James looking at him. James’s soft, sweet expression, with the light playing on his face.

Lars looks away, down to the crushed can in his hand. Down where James’s fingers touch his forearm.

He watches James’s fingers squeeze, dents forming in the skin. “You don’t have-”

“No, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I, uh…”

“Yeah?”

He fights the silence. The emotion inside. The memory that hasn’t come up in years.

The sturdy strength of James’s hand. The comfort in it.

Lars lets go a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He opens his eyes.

“It’s not her fault,” he says. “I just got tired fighting alone.”

James’s hand leaves his forearm. 

"Didn't Dave help you?"

Lars runs a shaky hand through his hair. 

He pulls at the ends a bit, hurting his scalp. 

He does that a few more times. 

_I should stop this,_ he thinks. _Tell James to piss off right now. He doesn't need to know about Dave and me. It's none of his fucking business. None of this is. None of this is, really, it's none of James's business. None at all._

He tugs one last time on his hair.

His hand flops into his lap.

Lars lets the crushed can slip out of his hand. It falls to the truck floor.

"It was through Dave that I got the escapes I needed from my usual life,” he says. “He and I started as friends in middle school, then I started coming over to his place, and we bonded over music. It grew from there. We smoked our first joint together, drank our first shot of alcohol together, had our first... you know." He looks up, beyond the dashboard to the dim pink-orange sky and the churning waves. "Dave called them experiments. So that's what we did. We experimented together. We did it all." He sighs. "Then I got accepted to Berkeley."

"Ah... was Dave mad about it?"

Lars stares at the ocean for a few more moments, then he closes his eyes.

"Yeah. He was."

Mad. Yeah. He was. Sure. A complete and total fucking understatement. To this day, Lars remembers exactly what Dave looked like when he dropped that bomb on him. It didn't help he said it the night before he was leaving. Had told Dave, _I have something important to tell you_ , and like the eternal teenager Dave is, Dave assumed the best, and got the worst. The hazel eyes that once captivated and entranced him turned cold and vicious. Hands that used to hold him close had shook his shoulders with unchecked rage. Red curls had cascaded around his face, shrouded him in light darkness, as Dave used his height and loomed over him.

 _How the fuck could you?_ Dave hissed then. _How could you fucking do this? How could you leave? How could you leave LA?_ Dave had thrown them to the floor, straddled his body and kissed him so hard his upper lip bruised. _How the fuck could you fucking leave me?!_

It was a fuck Lars couldn't forget. He limped the first week he was there in Berkeley. Dave put his lasting mark alright. No one asked him questions. Stares were thrown, whispers were uttered, but no one approached him looking for answers. They made up their own minds the minute they saw him. And it was then that Berkeley first reminded him of Los Angeles, Sunset, home. North or South, it didn't matter, these people swarmed everywhere. Anywhere.

"What did he think you were gonna do?"

James's soft question abruptly knocks Lars out of his thoughts. He runs a hand over his face, still not ready to look at James, at that intense blue stare.

"He thought I was gonna apply to USC or UCLA." Lars leans back into his seat. "So he thought I was still gonna be in the area."

"Did you really want to leave?"

"Yeah." Lars closes his eyes and massages the tear ducts, the skin. "I actually didn't want to go to college. I just wanted to leave."

"Why didn't you? What stopped you?"

Jesus, how many questions did James have? Lars's hand drops to his lap. "Berkeley was a way out," he explains. "I got to leave LA through college."

"Yeah, but why didn't you leave LA earlier? Why did you wait for college to do it?"

"To get my mom off my back. She wanted me to go to college, and out of spite, I didn't go to the colleges she wanted me to go to. She wanted Stanford, UCLA or USC. I applied to none. I applied and went to Berkeley."

"But why did you come back to LA?" James crushes his can and throws it onto the ground, next to Lars's. The two cans clink together. "Why not stay there?"

"I kinda..." Lars' hands fly up into his hair. He scratches his scalp, pulls at the roots. "I kinda made a promise to Dave." He shakes his head. "But it's not because of Dave why I really came back. I think."

"Then what is it?"

He flops his hands to his sides. "Christ, I don't fucking know, okay? I want to say it's because Dave made me promise I'd come back. I really want to." He opens his eyes and stares at the ocean. It's almost dark now. "But I'd just be putting full blame on something that I know doesn't fully deserve it."

"Then tell me." James scoots closer. Lars can hear the shuffle of clothes, the squeak of the leather seat. "Tell me what you really think the reason is."

Lars clenches his fists. He looks at the dashboard. For a second, he visualizes slamming his forehead into it, followed by the air bag going off. How wonderful would that be.

He looks down at the truck floor. It's darker now. Most of the light is gone. He can barely make out the two crushed cans there.

"Berkeley's different. It's fun. I like living there. And I have a good roommate in Cliff." He puts his foot down and kicks the cans. "It's a total different atmosphere than it is from Los Angeles. People aren't all about their images there. Or who is fucking who, or who is doing this movie, or what is happening on the Strip. It's refreshing." He puts his foot over one can and steps down. "But even in Berkeley, there were people I found that reminded me just of what I left behind in LA. And I hated it."

Lars retracts his foot and places it onto the seat. He holds it to his chest and sighs into his knee. The crushed can is even flatter from his shoe. More pancake-like.

James hand comes down and picks up the two cans. Lars looks up to see him throw them into the back seat with the other cans.

The blue eyes don't look as bright or intimidating in the near darkness. The orange glow of James's tan is gone now. It's darker skin, darker tone. The purple shirt he wears is a shade darker. Even James's blonde hair is a shade darker.

"I don't think that's why you came back."

Lars turns his head away from James. He plants his cheek onto his knee.

Outside the window he sees the near empty boardwalk. The palm trees sway in the ocean breeze. Purple starts to dominate the sky complete, with stars in its wake. The ocean still churns on, wave after wave plowing the sandy earth.

Squeaks on the leather, James's light sigh. Lars gazes up at the purple sky and the stars.

"You're addicted to LA. You got used to this area. Even though you hate it, like I hate it, you're used to it. You got used to your mom's nags. You got used to Dave being around. You got used to Sunset and its fakeness. You had the option to stay in Berkeley and not come back for winter break, but you didn't. It wasn't because of Dave's promise, but because you were curious. You wanted to know if things changed, if people changed. And you found they didn't change. They were the same. Everything was the same. So you fell back into the same patterns. You fell back into the same lifestyle. Because no matter how many times you look at it or analyze it, Los Angeles became your home. Denmark is where you started, but Los Angeles became your home." James's voice lowers considerably as he finishes. "And you hate yourself again, because you know you succumbed to Los Angeles and its image, the thing you tried to escape, and it's eating you away inside, day after day."

The stars above blur in his vision. 

Lars shuts his eyes and turns away. 

He plants his face into his knee and breathes into the denim.

He feels empty, hollow, nothing. His throat is tight; his body is numb.

His breaths are uneven, shaky. His chest wants to heave; his head wants to explode. Outwardly, he looks composed. But he knows James can see what he did. He can peel back the curtain and see what's there.

He doesn't feel comforted. He feels exposed, raw, unraveled. And he hates it. Absolutely hates it.

 _Is this what James wanted?_ he thinks. _To make me like this?_

Faint music reaches his ears. He totally forgot the stereo was still playing Judas Priest. He blocks away his thoughts and picks up stray lyrics from the soft song.

 _He had enough, he couldn't take anymore._ Lars bit his lip to hold back his sigh. _He found a place in his mind and slammed the door._ Appropriate at the wrong time, that's what this was. _No matter how they tried, they couldn't understand._

A warm hand lands on his back. James's hand again. 

The heat soaks through his shirt.

It's chilly outside the car. The sun's gone completely. No more pinks, no more oranges, no more yellows. Purple and black, that's all there is, and white stars.

 _I've left the world behind,_ comes the song. _I am safe here in my mind._

James's hand moves up to his shoulder. His hand squeezes the juncture between shoulder and neck.

Lars looks up, removing his face from his knee. He stares up across the beach. Nothing is illuminated naturally anymore. There's no moon, so the water is pitch black. But he can hear it roaring constantly outside. It won't die. It can't.

"The more I stay... the more I forget."

James's hand squeezes again. "Then don't. Don't forget. Remember that you will leave." The hand lets go, then rests on the side of his neck. His hand squeezes gentle. "You already left before. You can do it again."

Lars closes his eyes and tilts his head down. "I don't want to disappear."

James's hand squeezes again. "You won't—"

"No! No, listen..."

His emotions are finally losing it. His control is waning. His resolve is on its last leg. He shudders when he breathes, shakes when he sighs, stutters when he speaks.

He has to tell someone though. James will understand. He has to. No one else can but James.

James's hand relaxes and slips around to the nape of his neck. Lars calms enough to speak.

"I... I was driving one day. On Santa Monica. And... and I went off, and drove down this street, just driving, and at the red light, I saw this billboard for some sort of resort, some get away in Glendale or whatever." His eyes slowly open. "But the words. The two biggest words on there. They scared me." His next breath quakes. "They said 'disappear here.'"

The song goes into this intricate solo. Lars tries to pay attention to it, but fails. All he can think of are those words, that billboard. Disappear Here.

James's hand leaves his neck. The warmth residue cools in the ocean air.

The hand returns underneath his chin. It gently tugs Lars towards him. He's too tired to fight, so he goes with it.

In the darkness, James's blue eyes don't look intimidating in the least. Or maybe it's because he understands. Or he's sympathetic. Or something. Lars can't tell.

But he can see in the vague light from the boardwalk how James's lips curl into a sweet smile that warms his insides and eases away his inner hurt.

"You're too much of an individual to disappear." James takes his hand away from Lars's chin. His smile turns sad. "You just need to make yourself believe that."

Lars doesn't think twice about his actions. He leans forward into James and buries his face into the strong shoulder. Some sort of support is what he needs after a day like this, an unloading like this. And he knows James is attentive. He knows him. He can tell without the words, and it's beyond comforting to Lars that James can do that.

James proves him right when he wraps his strong arms around Lars and pulls him gently closer. He puts his chin on top of Lars's head. He can feel James's breath waft through his scalp, and the sensation lulls him into a state of peace.

"Do you want to do this again?" James asks into his scalp. His voice is a tad muffled. Lars can feel the vibrations against his head. "Have talks like this?"

"Yeah."

One of James's hands pats his back. "Cool." He hears very faint chuckling. "We call it here in the US 'shooting the shit.'"

Lars grins into James's shoulder. He lifts an arm up and brings James closer to him, his face more into James's shoulder. He smells his cologne and sighs. "I like that."

They remain in that hold for awhile, until the soft song in the background comes to a close, and the next track comes on. They pull back with no awkwardness between them, no trace of weirdness or confusion. It's what the moment called for.

 

 

The cool air raises goosebumps on Lars's skin. He turns to the passenger door and rolls up the window. He hears James doing the same thing on his end.

He situates himself in his seat and buckles himself in once more. It's late and time to go home. The drive will be long, three hours too long, but James said he could do it. He'll help where he can, of course.

He watches James take out the Judas Priest tape and flip through which one to put in next. He wants to say something to convey to James how he feels, just how disgustingly thankful he is, but there's nothing he can think of aside from the obvious. And he's not open enough to say what he feels from the heart.

"James?" Lars whispers, his eyes watching James's hands flip through the tapes.

"Mmhmm?" James's eyes widen. He picks the Motorhead one and puts the other ones away.

The word 'thanks' is right on the tip of his tongue. But it feels so trivial, so useless.

Lars sighs and blurts out instead, "You missed your gig."

James rolls his eyes. "Like I said earlier. Not a big deal." He turns on the truck. "Besides, someone's gotta do this," he continues, taking out the Motorhead tape. "You don't know anything about music and Walkman's. It's practically un-American!"

For a second, Lars thinks he's serious. But it's only a second, fleeting and gone, especially when James turns to him while putting in the Motorhead tape, grinning.

"But you'll learn though," he says, sincerity in his voice. His whole face softens again for the umpteenth time, and the sincerity deepens into something Lars can't name. "I'll teach you."

Lars smiles soft. In the darkness, his blush is unnoticed.

The truck goes in reverse as the song's heavy bass line abruptly shocks him, wakes him up. He sees James's grin in the corner of his vision.

They speed away from Pismo as the song continues. James sings on top of his lungs at top speeds, heading back to the highway and to Los Angeles. Lars finds himself headbanging along with James, but not singing. He doesn't know the words, but he knows he'll have to. It's a great song. And he wants to be able to sing along with James to all of this music he doesn't know. Anything to be closer with James.

 

 

The next day, Lars receives a phone call. He answers it in the living room. He forgets to ask the maid who it is, so he assumes it's James. But as he picks it up, he realizes he still hasn't given James his home number.

"Hey there."

 _Shit._ "Hi Dave, what's up?"

"Nothing much," Dave says, casual, light, like nothing is wrong. There shouldn't be. There isn't. Right. "How are you doing?"

"Doing good." He's lying through his teeth. He's lied his entire life, so fooling Dave wouldn't be so hard. "I was gonna call you up tomorrow. Maybe head out somewhere."

"Well why don't we do it a day earlier, huh?" Dave asks, enthusiasm thick in his voice. "How about you and I ditch this place and go somewhere nice?"

Lars's eyebrows perk up. Dave? Going somewhere? "Where did you have in mind?"

"There's this cooking party happening tonight somewhere near Wilshire and Van Ness. Wanna hit it up?"

 _Spoke too soon._ "Dunno."

"Oh come on, it'll be great."

He's wheedling. Lars can hear it. He wants to go, and he wants to see Lars, and dammit, he won't stop until he gets it.

'Does it always have to be a party' he wants to blurt out. 'Do we always have to go to Los Angeles' he wants to yell. 'Do you even know what it's like outside of this place' he wants to scream. But that's not what he does. That's not his nature. He just doesn't do that. Roundabout way it is then.

"Why don't we go somewhere quieter?"

Maybe that was a hopeful tone in his voice. He can't tell.

"You sure? Because my place is a mess—"

"Not your place."

"Then where?"

"I..." He sighs. "I dunno."

"Well shit, if you don't know, then why are you asking?"

"Dunno."

"I swear, sometimes..." Dave hisses and huffs, kicks something in the background. A bit of static. "So, we going tonight?"

Lars closes his eyes. "I don't think so."

"That's cool. So tomorrow—"

"Maybe."

" _Maybe?_ You just said you _wanted_ to go tomorrow!"

His lips purse into a tight, thin line. "Maybe I don't want to."

"Lars—"

He slams the receiver down, yells at the maid to make him his usual drink, runs up the stairs and throws himself onto the bed. He bites into his pillow and screams into it until his throat burns.

He wants to pull his hair. He wants to scratch his eyes. He wants to tear and rip and destroy. Instead, he lays perfectly still on the bed, face down on his belly, as if he's dead. Like he is a corpse. Keeps his mind blank and his mouth on the pillow. He doesn't even notice the maid coming into the room with his drink. He doesn't even touch it when the maid leaves it on his nightstand next to his black telephone.

Lars lays in his bed with his face in the pillow. He skips breakfast and any other phone call addressed to him from Dave. He doesn't leave or do anything, until the maid comes to his room and says someone named James is here to pick him up.


End file.
